Hidden in plain sight
by GosieKin
Summary: Gibbs receives a special gift from a Secret Santa and Tony, being Tony, tries to find out who sent it.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **Author's Note:**

Hi everyone! I've only recently discovered NCIS (I have no idea how I could have been oblivious to this brilliant TV series for so long!). I was disappointed that certain story arcs weren't explored further, leaving me compelled to put pen to paper.

Please forgive me for any mistakes as English isn't my first language and I didn't have any Beta around to go through it. I hope you'll enjoy anyway.

 **Warning:**

*Spoilers to Season 8. The action starts immediately after s8. ep.10 : "False Witness".

*Rating: T (for now)

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 **Chapter 1**

Despite the rather late hour of the Friday evening, there is still life at the Navy Yard. Whilst most of the buildings stands dark and deserted, the one in which NCIS headquarters is situated, is an entirely different story altogether. And one place in particular shows signs of activity.

The Squad Room.

The heart of the building. A place where, like in any heart, action never stops. In here, there is always someone who is working night shifts or simply finishing late. The difference between day and night is mainly in the level of noise and in lighting. Every night, with the main lights turned off and the ones remaining being the emergency bulbs outside of MTAC or the personal desk lamps, the usually bee-hive busy and brightly lit area is quiet and enveloped in a soft, blueish darkness. Today, the difference is also in the added delicate glow of the tiny LED lights on the large Christmas tree.

It's quiet but not utterly silent. It's a place of business after all.

It is no different in the basement of the building. In its deepest bowels, the Autopsy is pitch black and long since deserted but the garage and the orange corridors are a different story. They are still lit by a soft, yellow lights and a distant hum of the vacuum cleaner indicates the presence of the night janitor. And the corridors of the subbasement pulse gently but palpably to the rhythm of someone's lively music, something that would seem unusual to a possible outsider. But to anyone working here it's nothing extraordinary. Music coming from the always open door of the Forensics Lab is simply a part of NCIS, just like the ever present orange paint on the walls. It simply is.

 **NCIS***NCIS***NCIS**

"So, McGenius, what's all this Geeky McClicking actually about? What are you improving this time?"

"In which language do you want me to explain, Tony - Homo Sapiens Intelligens or DiNozzoandertal?"

"Yeah, very funny. Oi, Abs, I heard that!"

"Heard what?"

"You giggled like a girl."

"Oh, Tony..." the husky, female voice that replies, carries the tone of amusement, "I'm known for many things but I certainly _not_ for girlish giggling."

"Well... okay, fine, point. You, as Ducky would have said, _sniggered._ Whatever you call it, you made fun. Of me. Me, your superior."

From the chair by the computer station, comes another short, throaty chuckle. "You, my superior? In your hinky kinky dreams!"

He laughs at his friend's retort and shifts his position. The work bench is definitely _not_ the most comfortable of seats. It's hard and the chill of the stainless steel surface has already seeped through his suit pants. But it's the only place in here he can sit on and besides, from here he can monitor both of his working friends' reactions at the same time. "Gladly, yeah, but no. I don't need to dream about it. Last time I checked, my employment file did say that I am a Senior Field Agent. A _very_ Special Agent, as you very well know it, little lady," he boasts, "oh, and also, an acting Team Leader when needed. And I'm supervising you right now so yeah, I _am_ your superior."

"And I am _Abby Sciuto_ ," the response shot right back at him is flippant and yet, full of self-certainty. Fair enough – the name alone _is_ enough to explain everything. "Oh, and also, I happened to be Chief Forensic Scientist. The _Head_ of this entire department. So, go figure."

"Ah, power play…. Cute! Not that I wanna point fingers but someone here should go and check the dictionary for the meaning of the word 'humble'," he counters.

"Yeah - and that person would be _you,_ " the usually soft baritone of his other teammate has a dry, impatient tone to it. Busy with typing something away on his laptop, Tim doesn't even bother looking away from the screen. "That is, of course, if you even know how a dictionary looks like."

All of a sudden, Abby laughs openly and it startles him a little. For the cheerful creature she is, his friend rarely laughs out loud. Her smiles are mile wide, she squeals when she's delighted but even very amused, she only chuckles. But now she _is_ laughing and it is a laughter that is bright and almost girly. He likes the sound. It's been very, _very_ long since he had last heard it.

"You two, stop cracking me up!" Abby demands and it's clear that she is having a little trouble controlling the movements of her wireless mouse. "I can't focus on my file."

"It only means your self-control needs working on."

"Tony!"

He ignores the plea in his friend's voice. "What? Self-control is a vital skill for a Field Agent."

"I'm not a Field Agent."

"Ah, yes. Sorry, Firecracker, but you look so good with a gun in your hand that I tend to forget you are just a lab rat."

"Tony!"

He is now almost cockily pleased at the sound of his friend's now almost breathless laughter. That is, until Abby reaches out for something and a second later a pencil flies in his direction. He ducks swiftly, dodging it at the last second and Abby's makeshift missile lands with a wooden clatter somewhere behind him. _Not bad,_ he congratulates himself that his reflexes are still sharp despite the late hour and the blueish semi-darkness that cocoons the lab. Ziva would have been impressed.

Yeah, right, he could wish. Ziva would have caught it with two fingers. With her eyes closed.

"Okay, okay, don't shoot… Ziva's padawan," he teases and Abby wags her finger at him. She is trying to look stern but it's a totally lost cause; her face contorts from the hardly restrained giggles she apparently _is_ capable of. He just wags his eyebrows. No way he will stop teasing her now, now that he had actually managed to make her laugh. He needs it. And he knows that Abby needs it too. "You're not a lab rat," he goes on. "You're lab brat – I mean bat! You're our _bat_ – and a very adorable one, I must add! Whoa. I am a poet and I don't even know it. Must be Ducky's bad influence."

Abby's laughter flows again as if per request, honest and bright and he is proud of himself. But as she finally stops laughing and retorts, "Aw, Tony, rhyming for me now?" her voice is once more, low and husky, like always when she speaks. "I've always suspected you had a thing for me."

"Yeah," he responds with a wide, cocky grin. "I just couldn't keep it a secret anymore!"

"I love you too, Tony," Abby flashes him one of her famous brilliant smiles. "But now shut up and let me work, okay?" then she huffs and instantaneously, a playful frown mars her face. "And don't you _dare_ say another bad word about our dear Ducky!"

"Fine, fine. I'll let you work..." he pretends to give up, "…if you tell me what you bought Ziva for a Christmas present."

"Blackmailing me? In _my_ lab? It can cost you your life, Signor DiNozzo," Abby blinks at him innocently. "And you know there will be no evidence left so you'd better watch it! But I like you so I will spare your life if you spare yourself from sneaking in here and trying to find the presents. FYI - I don't keep them here anyway."

He doesn't reply to that and only watches with amusement as his friend spins around in her chair, grabs the large cup of Caf-Pow! from the counter and slurps eagerly on the remains of her favorite energy drink. For a moment he thinks of teasing her about the amount of CafPow! she's had today but then gives up on the idea, for the fear of getting shivers. Never in all the years of knowing her, could he comprehend how she could pour so much caffeine into her system and survive. He occasionally, in times of a real dire need, braves half a cup – but more than that and heart, stomach and brain palpitations are guaranteed. To him, a couple of coffees or a can of good old RedBull seem like a much safer options.

As he continues to lounge on the processing table, musing about this and that, Abby's last words remind him of one of the things that has been bugging him for the past few days. "Since we're on the Christmas presents subject," he breaks the brief peace, "do any of you know who Gibbs' Secret Santa was this year?"

It works, even better than he thought it would. The staccato of the clicking of both keyboards stops nearly simultaneously and he thinks it's actually a wonder – usually, McClick doesn't need to even pause his typing to engage in something as trivial as speech.

"He really should go and check for the meaning of 'relevance'," Tim's muttered comment is addressed clearly to Abby, after which he turns in his chair. "No, Tony, I don't know and I don't feel any urge to know. Unlike you, I respect other people's privacy."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder, Captain McObvious," he replies sarcastically. "Oh, come on, people!" he moans with a sudden impatience. For the whole of three days he had conducted himself in the 'office robot' fashion and is now almost dying for some mischief. "You know what I'm talking about here, don't pretend! We all know Gibbs got two Secret Santa presents this year, right? Forget about the first one; it's just a bottle of bourbon. A good one but just bourbon and what's more important, this was from his _real_ Secret Santa, the one that was picked for Gibbs. I've spent the last two days working it out and I know who it was. But the other present… C'mon, we all saw it!"

"Yeah, and what of it, Tony?" Tim protests. "It's just cologne."

"Wrong! What kind of an investigator are you, McOblivious? It's not just any cologne. It's a _unique_ , custom composed Eau de Cologne, smelling like nothing I've smelt before, bottled in something you won't get in just any store. Trust me on it. And whoever sent it, was definitely _not_ someone chosen to be Gibbs' Santa, oh no, no, no, no, no. That mysterious someone only used the gift exchange as a cover! And unlike bourbon, her gift was complimented with a lovely card that contained a poem and was signed 'with all my love, your Secret Santa'," adjusting his voice to sound like a female comes easily to him when he quotes the signature he had spied on the card. He feels on the roll. "The wishes were nicely written, no, hold on, correction – _exquisitely calligraphed_ – and topped up with a teeny tiny heart instead of the full stop. Looked more like a love card than a Santa gift – and you're telling me that you wouldn't like to know who this mysterious sender is?"

"What I wouldn't like to know is how _you_ have come to know this message to such extent," Abby responds as first and her earlier cheerfulness is gone from her voice. "If I remember well, Gibbs had showed us only the bottle and then put everything away."

"Ha! That is, my lovely Miss Sciuto, because nothing, I say nothing escapes the ever watchful eye of the famous investigator, Antonio DiNozzo!" he points at himself, this time using his Italian accent as his disarming weapon. "I pride myself in having my ears always tuned to the tiniest whispers and eyes, still 20/20, by the way, always scanning for every detail of an affair."

"And what I don't want to know is _when_ you had the time for your… scanning _,_ " McGee pipes in, "considering how busy we were with Neisler's case."

"Ha! Wonder no longer, my dear McWatson! That's a true art, in which only few excel!" the excitement makes his body tingle and as he's had enough of seating anyway, he hops of the table. "Like the famous Sherlock Holmes, I was born to it! You know, it takes a considerable skill, to be able to investigate an affair amidst of yet another affair. Or, if you prefer – same time, two affairs. Wow. I'm rhyming again!"

He paces back and forth in front of his friends but his eyes never leave them and it doesn't escape his attention that Tim rolls his eyes as he and Abby exchange gazes again. It's not hard to guess what they might think right now. And okay, maybe he is going a little too far but being the class clown flows in his veins and he had kept it bottled up for too long.

McGee turns to him and his face has this specific exasperated expression that Tim always has when he is about McLecture someone. Any second now…

"It's not an investigation, Tony. It's plain snooping around."

 _Of course._

"Semantics," he dismisses the comment with a wave of a hand and zeroes his eyes firmly on Abby. "Abs," he coaxes, "You must know something. Spill."

"Whatever makes you think that _I_ know something?"

 _Ha!_ He knows Abby too well to buy her innocent reply.

"Because you're Abby Sciuto and you just _know things_. And everyone knows that."

Abby only shrugs again and to him, it's enough. _Bullseye!_ His friend is never short of a witty retort and the only times she would refrain from a verbal reply are if she is either hurt or, trying very hard to keep something a secret. One of her traits is that she is virtually incapable of telling a convenient lie – and aware of this weakness, she almost always opts for silence. Silence that he now fully intends to break. If only he gets her to start talking, she'd get tangled in her own words as she usually does and he can easily connect the dots together.

"C'mon, Abs," he encourages in his best sing-song voice. "Just look me in the eye and tell me you know nothing about it and I will leave you alone."

Abby remains silent but judging by the way she is beginning to fidget under his insistent gaze, he knows he is close.

"That's what I thought... C'mon, Abster, you want to say it, you know you do..." he continues to cajole her softly. "Don't hold the truth out on us. We deserve to know it. And we all know that you _do_ know something. Gibbs always tells you stuff... You probably know more of his secrets than any of us combined..."

That something's gone wrong, he realizes almost as soon as he's finished saying the last word. It's rather obvious; Abby's demeanor changes as if caused by a touch of some invisible hand. The hands on her lap stop fidgeting, her not very secretly crossed fingers uncurl, her body stills and as she is staring right back at him, her gaze is calm and sure.

"No, Tony, he didn't tell me anything. But let's just suppose he did... I don't want to point fingers but _someone_ here should really go and look up the dictionary. This time, for the meaning of the word 'confidentiality'," Abby chirps sweetly at him and he inwardly braces himself for more. With her naturally husky voice, that sweet tone sounds like a dark, sensual promise – but he knows that it is anything but. It's a warning. Only those who know Abby well can recognize it – and he knows her well enough.

And yeah, he does get more.

"And in case you have trouble spelling it, Google predictive text will help," Abby's look doesn't waver. All he can do is to still himself under this glare of hers – but he's already lost, he knows it; he's lost, as he always does when it comes to him and Abby being in open opposition. For the cute and cheerful creature she genuinely is, if pushed hard enough, Abby is capable of giving a death glare that could match one of Gibbs' own – and that, whilst still smiling sweetly. It's a rather unsettling experience.

Not without a reason he had once called her a 'paradox wrapped in oxymoron'. She is exactly that.

As his best friend returns to her screen again, Tony relaxes a bit and silently berates himself for his misjudgment. He'd played the wrong card. Abby is _the_ go-to person if one wants to learn the latest official office gossip but when it comes to any secrets that their boss himself entrusted with her personally, it's a lost cause. No one knows whether these secrets are serious matters or just some snippets of Gibbs' private life; she would sooner rather literally bite her tongue off than disclose any of them to anyone. It has always been like that and it will probably never change.

He shrugs off the lost battle with Abby. There is a quest to be solved, he tells himself. Abby has clammed up - but there is still one more person he can work on.

"Hey, McGenius, help me out in here, would ya? We can still work it out, together."

From the workstation comes an irritated groan.

"Seriously, Tony?"

"No, facetiously. C'mon! We are investigators, right? Just for a minute pretend that this is a real case and the gift is real evidence. Analyze it. What do you make of it?"

"Do you know what, Tony? For the last three days, you've been nothing but professional, focused and considerate, to the point that we were worried about you, like really, genuinely worried. But now that you're back to being you, I think Ziva should have left talking to you till at least New Year! We'd all be better off if you stayed serious for longer."

Even though his inner drive to stick his nose in just about everything is killing him, the tiny part of him that is called a reason recognizes that he's pushed a little too hard. "Alright, alright, sorry, Tim, okay?" he tries to pacify his teammate. His apology is acted only partially. As much as he enjoys tormenting McGee, he also knows when to acknowledge a valid critique when he hears one. It stings a bit – because there is some truth in it. "C'mon, man, you know me. Nosiness is in my blood. After the last few days I just _have to_ let it out…" he admits. It costs him a little to be really honest but it pays off when he sees McGee's frown of frustration relaxing significantly. "Just humor me, _please_ and I will leave you alone."

"Promise?"

"On Scout's honor."

"You're not a Scout."

"The DiNozzo's honor."

"Yeah, like that's any better," Tim grumbles but his voice lacks the earlier edge. "I will hold you to that! Okay then… Let's get this over with. Cologne first," he exhales protractedly and concentration shows on his tired face. "Normally, a product can be traced back to its origin through the barcode. Did you see any printed on the bottle?"

"Nope. The box, the bottle, the card… no barcodes or brands visible and that's rather rare. I told you. They all looked custom made to me."

"Well, then assuming that you are not wrong about the fragrance also being custom composed then we can say that that doesn't come cheap, right? Not usually an item you will buy as a mere Secret Santa, for someone who wouldn't even know your name. Unless... unless we consider that the sender didn't mind. Someone with enough money, maybe…? Maybe someone with income high enough? Or, maybe the sender simply comes from a well-off family?

Tim's comment makes sense and Tony nods, enjoying this makeshift campfire brainstorm. "You see? You're making me see what I've missed!" he tries a little flattery, knowing very well that that his much younger teammate still craves compliments, deep down. "What about the psychological evaluation, Dr. Watson? I know you've been consulting Ducky when you were doing your writing research."

"Yeah, I did," Tim's smile is weary but pleased, "I'm nowhere near Ducky's skills but I can try... Okay, the card. I saw it only for a split of a second but it's definitely from a woman. It looked handcrafted and statistically, women care for decorating more than men do. And then, the message… It speaks for itself, really. Clearly, it's someone who has invested emotionally. I imagine Ducky would say that a heart drawn manually is a sign of an inner need of showing that little extra, a need to add that visual effect that enhances the message. It's a need common in very young females but not exclusively. Women are all different, right? Some of them can be a bit infantile for their whole life. So, maybe our mysterious female isn't that young; just a bit infantile. Maybe she wasn't afraid of showing it, since it was all incognito? Or, maybe she didn't even realize it would come off this way? I really can't tell; I'm not Ducky. But in overall – I dare say affectionate but also shy, generous and inventive. Her age… well, hard to say but anything from twenty to forty, really. Oh, and since you mentioned calligraphy… I doubt she would use a quill at her work station but there is a chance that she uses a traditional ink pen to sign her documents."

Tony swallows his natural urge to question Tim's knowledge about women. No point undermining what he has so far achieved. After all, Tim is talking – and he does have a few valid points. "You see, McWatson? You can if you want to!" he praises. "I say this is a good start of an investigation!"

"I'm not starting anything, Tony! Quite the contrary; I want to finish - _this_ ," Tim points with his thumb at the monitor behind his back and his reply is so firm this time that Tony decides against making any more remarks for now. Even McGee has a limit of his patience. Nodding in a silent agreement, he then watches then as McGee shifts on his swiveling chair and resumes his interrupted work. Despite his visible tiredness, Tim's fingers seem to dance on the keyboard, swiftly and surely. He always makes fun of McGee's 'Geeky McClicking' but a part of him secretly wishes to be so fluent in typing on the keyboard. _Damn,_ he thinks as he silently admires the speed at which the lines of coded commands appear on the black screen. If not for anything else, it would have made writing his reports much faster.

After a few moments of continuous typing, McGee moves the wireless mouse about, clicking here and there, then types in a few more words and finally releases a loud huff of relief. "Done and done. I will run a mock test at home and another one here, on Monday," he informs Abby. Her focus on her own screen is so absolute that at she doesn't acknowledge the words at all. Only after a second it registers because she absentmindedly murmurs, "yeah, thanks, Timmy," and goes back to her work.

As he begins to shut down whatever program he had been writing, McGee speaks again. "I know you probably won't heed my words but seriously, Tony, you should leave it. You should know better than snooping around Gibbs' business," he advises and Tony knows deep down that his teammate _is_ right. "What is it to you? He doesn't care much about gifts and this one is no different. And if he doesn't care, why should you?"

Now, _that_ just had to be addressed. "Oh, but he _does_ care," he says. Maybe he will be alone on his little quest but he can't stop himself from making a final statement. "Yeah, he normally doesn't care much for any presents but with this one, he _does_ ," he accentuates, grinning triumphantly as he notices that Tim is actually listening to his words. Abby, too, surprise, surprise. She is sitting still, her back straight but she stopped typing and she _is_ listening. She even switched her music off. So, what could it hurt to convince them, even just for the heck of it? "Just FYI – he only wears Old Spice, never anything else, right? And now, all of a sudden, he's switched to this one – and he's been wearing it Every. Day. Since. He. Got. It!"

Closing the screen of the laptop, Tim huffs goodheartedly, "Yeah, and how do you know _that_?"

"Yeah, how do you know _that_ , DiNozzo?"

He winces, surprised by the sound of the deep voice that sotly breezed from behind him. In front of him, Tim winces too – but Abby remains still and it becomes clear to him just what _exactly_ she had all of a sudden started paying attention to. After all, amongst them all, her 'Gibbso-radar' had so far proved to be the most successful.

Both embarrassed for his words and pissed off that he allowed himself to be caught yet again, he can only squeeze out two words, the same as always.

"Hi, Boss."

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **Author's Note:**

Hi everyone! I was touched by all the reviews and private messages – thank you, guys! If that was physically possible, my smile would have been wrapped all around my head and tied in a neat bow at the back of it.

On we go, chapter two. Please forgive me for any mistakes as English isn't my first language and I didn't have any Beta around to go through it. I hope you'll enjoy anyway.

A big thanks to my son Alex, for being my sounding board for this one.

 **Warning:**

*Spoilers to Season 8. The action starts immediately after s8. ep.10 : "False Witness".

*Rating: T (for now)

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 **Chapter 2**

 _Not again, DiNozzo,_ is what crosses Gibbs' mind as he stands behind everybody's back. No point trying to relax his clenched jaws, it won't work – like every time when he is pissed off at his second in command. Despite having being his Senior Field Agent for years, and being incredibly good at it, Tony still has moments when he behaves like an overgrown teenager on sugar high. Damn it, why again and again, and again? Is it so hard to learn such a simple thing or does he need it to be made into one of the rules, carved in stone and dumped onto his desk, to be the thought of the day, every day? Doesn't the team get enough wiggle room as it is? He, as their boss, is their designated slave driver but as every good team leader should, he does understand that in their line of work, letting some steam out is helpful, necessary even. He understands it to the point of allowing them a certain amount of friendly banter even during working hours, for as long as it doesn't interfere with the job currently at hand. Hell – he even _joins_ them sometimes in this goofing around. But this? This is a different story. Actively interrupting others as they are quite clearly _still_ busy with their tasks is something he doesn't, and won't ever tolerate. Not on his watch.

And Tony, of all people, should know that.

Keeping his voice deliberately flat, he orders, "Turn around, DiNozzo."

Tony, however, doesn't move even a muscle. "I'm… waiting for my head slap, Boss," he replies and his solemn voice rings of the anticipation of the unavoidable.

 _Ah, well, DiNozzo, that's between you and your masochist streak._ "Not gonna headslap you. Turn around."

This time, Tony does as ordered. His face is just as serious as his voice, though it's just a faint echo of the dead serious Tony of the past three days.

"I asked you how you know," he reminds, "Been sniffing me, or somethin'?"

"No, of course not, Boss!"

As a reply to his SFA eager reassurance, he merely raises an eyebrow. DiNozzo should get it. He might be a clown but he is a highly perceptive clown. He hadn't been handpicked for this job for his personality, after all.

"No, really, Boss… okay, fine… I have, I admit. But everyone has, as well!" Tony's voice does ring the true. Not that he, Gibbs, needs the confirmation; he had heard enough before he finally let himself known. But he is satisfied that Tony cuts his BS so quickly.

 _Good choice, DiNozzo._ "That so?" he asks.

"I'm serious, Boss! It's impossible _not_ to smell it! Everyone likes it, Boss, seriously, it's a really good fragrance! Haven't you noticed how most of our female staff all of a sudden flocks around you at any given opportunity?"

"Something you dream of achieving, Tony…"

McGee's muttered comment is actually quite amusing but it still needs to be addressed appropriately. "You know DiNozzo's dreams so well, McGee? How interesting," he drawls with a sardonic smile, knowing that this will unnerve them both even more. They never quite know for sure what to expect from him and he likes to keep it that way. It keeps them always alerted, always anticipating. Now, it is no different. Facing him, one seated, one standing, both his agents await in silence; one because he is intimidated and too smart to speak up again – and the other, because his guilt makes him intensively tuned to whatever is coming his way. Hundred percent tuned.

 _Good boy,_ he praises in his mind, despite the undeniable irritation he feels. DiNozzo might be pain in the ass sometimes but he is _his_ pain in the ass; his find, his school, his biggest pride.

"Now, if you're done clowning around, snap out of it, both of you! DiNozzo!" he barks sternly. "What are you still doing down here so late? We finished a long time ago."

"McGee was on some system upgrade, Boss, Abby on her report and myself on supervising duty," Tony's report is delivered with the fluidity of a well-oiled machine gun. "We were… going to help her to take the evidence down to the locker."

"Uh-huh," he acknowledges with a nod. He knows well that only a part of Tony's explanation is true. "McGee!" he calls out and the younger agent straightens up in his chair expectantly. "Done?"

Tim confirms.

"Good job," he gives his Junior Agent an honest acknowledgement. Tim deserves it; he is always such a solid, reliable worker. He doesn't even bother asking what McGee had been working on; it will be mostly just gibberish to him. Tim knows what he is doing.

Next one he calls, is Abby. "Abs… How long?" he asks when everyone's focus shifts onto her.

"Another ten, twenty minutes? Okay… thirty tops."

"DiNozzo," he addresses his SFA again. Tony snaps his attention back to him and he is more than ready for it. His discreetly raised hand now needs only inches to reach the intended target. With the movement so quick that Tony can only blink when it finally registers in his line of vision, he flicks his incorrigible agent in the forehead. "For interrupting people when they're working hard."

"Thank you, Boss," Tony breaths out his apologies, looking almost relieved that he finally received his reprimand. "Won't happen again."

"It better won't," he warns with all seriousness. He really, really wouldn't like to repeat himself.

Now, there was one more issue to be addressed.

"And now, explain why you feel such an overwhelming urge to dig out the identity of _my_ Secret Santa?"

"Honestly, Boss?"

"Well, no, DiNozzo, I highly recommend lying to me."

"Curiosity," Tony's reply is immediate, concise and honest. "I found it very intriguing and..."

"Intrigues are for politicians and paparazzi, Tony," he cuts in sharply. "Last I checked, you had ' _Crime Scene_ Investigator' written in your job description. Should I go and change it for something else?"

"No, Boss."

"Glad we still agree on it," he sums up. Relaxing his stance, he then takes a step back. That's a 'stand down' for Tony. "And next time, you wanna see what Santa wrote to me – ask. If you ask nicely enough, I might even show you. And yeah, by the way, you're right – it really _is_ a lovely card."

Tony perhaps can control his face but not his eyes, at least not entirely. He probably doesn't even know how his eyes have widened just ever so slightly and shone at the mention of the card. Typical DiNozzo; he is like the cat that is aware that curiosity can kill but wants to know anyway.

"Go on, ask," he allows almost casually. "I won't bite."

"With your permission… Boss," Tony begins with hesitation, "do you already know who this woman is?"

" _Already_ , Tony?" sarcasm comes to him as naturally as breathing. "What makes you think I even searched?"

"Because… you're _Gibbs_? You always search and always find out about everything."

Tony's blatantly flattering tone deserves only a snort. He sidesteps his agent and goes over to the computer station. Abby, just like McGee next to her, sits on her chair with her eyes wide open. He leans over her, grabs the back of her chair and spins her round till she faces her desktop again. She continues to stare up at him, but one look and a tap of his knuckles on her monitor are enough. Seconds later, her keyboard is in use again.

"No, Tony, I don't know who she is. Secret Santa is meant to stay anonymous, that's the very idea of it," he continues almost playfully as he straightens up. "But if I ever decide that I do want to find her and ask if she'd like to go out for a date with me, I'll find her, just like that!" he snaps his fingers in the air. "And then, you'll also know who she is. You'll all know. Hell, I suppose the entire Yard will know, judging how fast scuttlebutt travels around here. Satisfied?"

Tony is still serious but his eyes betray him again. "Yeah, Boss," he confirms and his lips quiver minutely from the smile that is trying to break out; a thing that Tony surely knows he shouldn't allow himself to do right now.

"I hope so. So don't you go snooping! _That,_ "he wags his finger, "I _will_ know – and then, you'll be feeling the back of your head for another week! Now, scram. And grab McGee on your way out, before he falls asleep in here," he adds as he notices the younger agent's eyes glazing over, as if didn't quite comprehend what was going on. "Hey, McGee!" he allows his voice to be booming again and smiles leniently when Tim shakes off and blinks rapidly his drooping eyelids. "C'mon. Home time."

He watches both agents as they gather their personal belongings, bid their surprisingly short goodnight to Abby and surprisingly peacefully make a bee line for the exit. And why is he not surprised that this peace is short living; they are just barely over the lab's threshold when he hears Tony beginning to mock McGee about the younger agent's supposed 'bedtime' hour. For all he knows DiNozzo and his moods, he will glue himself to McGee and torment him all the way to the parking lot. And McGee is too exhausted right now to think of an escape plan.

"DiNozzo!"

"Yeah, Boss?"

 _Know your environment…_

As Tony jogs back into the lab, he waits till his SFA is near him again. "One more thing. When I get back upstairs," he says slowly, deliberately and holds back a smile when his words drown out the distinctive ping of the arriving lift, "that firecracker mess you made in the Squad Room better be gone."

"Absolutely. Not a scrap left."

"And DiNozzo?" he can see that Tony is impatient to go but still, halts mid turn towards the door. " _Not_ with the janitor's hands! I _will_ know!"

Tony's jaws clench just ever so slightly but that is enough for him. Even if he had any doubts, now he is sure that getting Harry, their night janitor, to clean up must have been DiNozzo's initial thought. A classic DiNozzo; absolutely brilliant as a detective and just as creative in bullying others into doing his cleaning chores.

"Copy that, Boss."

He nods at that. "G'night, Tony," he dismisses lightly and bites back a smile as the bell of the lift pings again. As Tony rushes towards the closing lift, shouting, 'Hey, McGee, wait for me!', he allows himself a mere smirk but when he hears the frustrated 'Dammit', his smile breaks in full.

 _Yup. Good timing is the key._

With his agents gone, silence falls over the lab. Well, it's not utterly silent, not with the continuous clicking sound of Abby's keyboard and with the quiet buzz of the computer's fan. But it's nothing in comparison to any other given time when the music pulsates rather loudly from the speakers.

And silence in the lab is a rarity. Often a worrying rarity.

For a moment, he feels like asking Abby if everything is okay but then changes his mind. As he watches her, he decides that she is simply busy. She actually looks so genuinely engrossed in her final report that he doesn't want to interrupt. She can multitask, and he knows it with no doubt, but still. The sooner she finishes, the better. Later, there might be some time for questions.

Instead, he decides to go on about what he came down for in a first place. But before he gets to it, he needs latex gloves. The box with latex gloves is where he expects it to be, near the microscope and he quietly pulls a pair of them on.

"You know better than that, Gibbs!"

Abby's sing-song voice stops him just as he is about to reach for the first of the evidence boxes. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals that she is still turned away, busy on her computer. Just to try a little decoy, he steps away completely from the table and moves to stand in front of the Mass Spectrometer.

"Know better than what, Abs?"

"Then to open a sealed evidence box, just like that."

By the certainty in her voice, he can already tell where this is going but testing and teasing Abby is something he will never get tired of.

"Who said I was gonna open anything?"

At his innocent tone, Abby only snorts lightly. "It's all in here…" she pauses her typing and her right hand flies towards her temple. "I am Oracle Abby and I see things before they happen. I see a man as he sneaks into a dark room and puts a pair of latex gloves on… What is he up to? Is he here to perform some super-secret surgery? Or go for the Witch's Cupboard to brew a powerful and potent potion? Or is he perhaps interested in the Trunks of True Treasures? Yessss…" she hisses protractedly, "those are the goodies he seems to be interested in… _evidently_ …"

The smile stretches his lips quicker than his ever active self-control can stop it. But then again – this is Abby and he had never been particularly immune to her charm. With that husky voice of hers that gloomily drawls out the intrigue, she could be as well standing on the stage of Drama Theater, not sit at the computer station so late in the evening.

And even though he is far from bursting out laughing, still, keeping his voice neutral is definitely more difficult this time. " _Oracle_ Abby?" he calls her out on her self-proclaimed title. "Thought you call yourself a scientist."

"One doesn't exclude the other. I _am_ a scientist…" Abby declares resolutely, "…with a sight!"

"Uh-huh."

When he hears the familiar sound of her computer keyboard being used again, he moves back to the table where the two cardboard evidence boxes sit, described and sealed with a red tape. He has the nearest one pulled to the table's edge when Abby's voice stops him again.

"And this sight of mine tells me that you _still_ haven't signed the log."

He smiles again – this time with fondness, pride and a bit of admiration. Abby might appear like she is just kidding around but she is no kid that can be distracted from her main objective. And he knows very well where protectiveness stems from; she had once made a mistake of leaving the evidence with someone who had gained his credentials and her trust for the sole purpose of tricking her away from the lab just so he could have an opportunity to corrupt the said evidence. She has learnt from that mistake and now, eagles could learn from her how to watch over their eggs. Once the evidence is in her care, only the selected few can have a peek and that, only under her strict supervision. And once the evidence is fully processed and sealed off for deposition, no matter who you are – might that be Metro PD, FBI or one of the Navy's Big Cheeses, Chief Admiral, the SecNav, or even the President himself – wanna open it? Show the warrant and sign the log or get lost.

He _is_ one of those few selected ones that need no warrant but still, he has to write his signature on the list. Once that's done, he peels off the red seal from the box and goes through everything in silence. Abby also keeps quiet, but even with how busy she is, he is pretty sure that a part of her attention is still on him and the items he is scrutinizing. It might seem like she pauses her work every now and then only to have a look at her notepad, but these pauses weirdly coincide with moments when the plastic of this or other evidence bag rustles louder under his fingers. But she does continue working and finally, the tapping on the keyboard ceases entirely, replaced by the low whiz of the printer in the opposite corner of the room. Now it's time for her last tour around her lab, something Abby sets off to once the printer stops whirling and beeps. She goes from one machine to another, turning each one off for the night and he traces her movements. It doesn't escape him how stiffly she holds her shoulders. He had noticed that before, when she sat at the computer station but now it is even more evident. And it's not surprising, really – not considering the number of hours they pulled non-stop on the most recent case. They're all tired.

"How bad?"

His question slows Abby steps to a gradual stop and she gives him a puzzled look. "Bad what?"

"Your shoulders," he specifies.

"Ah, that… It's nothing."

Abby's oh so casual shrug would have looked convincing, he has to give her that. But he doesn't buy it; a small grimace gives her away.

"You could've finished hours ago and resting now, Abs," he points out.

"Pot calling kettle black, Gibbs," Abby's answer is light but her eyes look at him challengingly. "I get a little ache from being hunched up over the evidence all day, sure I do. You though? You, Mr. Pot, are on a wholly different scale of tense today. One could wonder why."

Being all of a sudden made the target of the conversation makes him a little uncomfortable, as it always does. He doesn't like to be fussed over, never has, with anyone. But in Abby's case, it's more than that. With her, he would like to share – it's just he knows that it's better not to, for the sake of the both of them. "Stop fishing, Abs," he warns softly. "I'm fine."

"Fishing is for fishermen on weekends," Abby declares matter-of-factly and marches over to the Mass Spectrometer so firmly that her unbuttoned lab coat flaps around her like a loose sail. "It's not a guess, Gibbs. I simply know so."

Now, he really doesn't like where this is going. One more step and Abby might actually venture into asking more direct questions and those would be much harder to deflect. It's better to do it now, before she catches more wind.

"Oh yeah?" he sets his own challenge. For all he knows Abby, nothing can redirect her attention than an inquiry about some technological detail. "You have some scanning device secretly installed in your eyes?"

And the sudden spark of amusement in her eyes tells him that he's hit home. "Ouch… busted!" Abby smiles widely, "Don't tell anyone but these two-" she whispers and points at her eyes with two fingers of her free hand, "are actually two latest state-of-NCIS-art X-Ray cameras, blasting Green Gamma radiation and permeating through everything! Therefore – Special Agent Abby knows it all!"

"Really? I wasn't aware of any promotions, _Special Agent Oracle Abby,_ " he teases to buy himself some time. To buy even more of it, he busies himself with placing the evidence back in the box. And then, he knows just what to say and turns to Abby to judge her reaction. "And since when do X-Rays machines blast _Gamma_? Thought they emit electromagnetic radiation."

Abby's eyebrows shoot up – not that he can actually see them, as they are completely hidden under her long bangs. But he knows how wide her eyes become when she is feeling surprised. "Huh! Ten brownie points for spotting my tricky trap!" she praises and it gives him a considerable amount of self-satisfaction; not only does it seem like his tactic of distraction worked – but he actually managed to impress her with something. And that's rare. He mentally gives himself a little pat on the back. Ten brownie points indeed… whatever the hell that means. But he doesn't get to ask about it because Abby's smile turns mischievous and that means she is already loading another of her guns. And fire, she does, "Tell me, Gibbs… Have you secretly enrolled as a student of Science?"

"Yup... At Duckpond Academy, years ago," he deadpans immediately and quirks a quick smile when Abby bursts out laughing. She calms down soon enough but to him that laughter is a sufficient reward. "Just don't tell Ducky. If he finds out that I've been actually listening to his lectures about everything, there'll be nothing to stop him."

"And you shouldn't stop him! Our Ducky is a real goldmine of knowledge, you should take an advantage of that and learn more!" it's really entertaining to watch as Abby is trying to make her advice sound serious. It's no use; her entire face literally beams with mirth. She goes back to her task of switching her favorite machine off for the night but after a moment, turns to him again, her eyes now narrowed slightly. "So… can I safely assume that _you've been actually listening_ to my lectures, too?"

Normally, during working hours, he would have pointedly ignored the question, but with the case closed, he doesn't feel the usual urgency of getting on with business and running at full speed ahead to the next task. One or two more jokes won't hurt. On his conditions, of course.

"Safely _assume_ , Abs? You know what I th…"

"…think of the word 'assume'?" Abby cuts in smoothly and doesn't even bother with finishing his sentence. "Oh, Gibbs… _Everyone_ at the Navy Yard knows what Special Agent Gibbs thinks of the dirty little words such as 'assume', 'maybe' and 'guess'. These words are a big 'no-no' and put in serious danger the unfortunate soul that dares to speak them in your presence. So, can I safely assume that you've been listening to my lectures?"

He rolls his eyes, amused. Of course. Abby is one of the very few people that have zero fear of him. And yeah, of course he has been listening. As a matter of fact he's been listening as best as he could force his mind to follow her ever-present techno-babble. But there is no way he would ever admit freely to it, just like that. That's just not him. "What do you think?" he teases, pulling his best poker face.

"About me being safe or my thesis being correct?"

"What do you think?" he repeats.

"Well, I'm always safe with you so it leaves me only with the 'assume' word. But it doesn't matter what _I_ think," the look Abby gives him is amused and openly mocking, accentuated by the way she turns away to Mass Spectrometer to type some sequence on the machine's vertical keypad. "It's about _you_ , _admitting_ it," she accentuates firmly.

"So you're _not_ sure."

"What I'm not sure of is if you actually have the courage to simply say 'yes' or 'no'."

He smirks lightly at the attempt of prickling his ego. He would have to be an inexperienced hothead to fall for such a basic trick. "I can, if I want to," he places the last piece of the evidence back in the box and closes the lid. "But it's more fun to let people try to work out the answers."

"Yeah… _that_ , you do a lot," Abby retorts lightly. Her attention is fully on the machine's lit display and she doesn't look up until its light goes off with a quiet beep. "Maybe you might need to consider revising your idea of 'fun'."

She is still smiling but he feels as if something has shifted in the playful mood between them. Something about her words somehow bothers him and his instinct pushes him take a step forward, to question her intentions from a much closer proximity. Invading people's personal space always works for him, with everybody, no exceptions. But he only manages one step and Abby is already beyond his reach, half way towards the printer. There, she is all into gathering all the printed pages and sliding them into a manila folder and then, into some other little tasks which he can't see exactly from where he is standing.

He intercepts her in the exact moment she is back at her computer station. But as he cuts into her trajectory, his plan of asking her about her possible hidden agenda somehow fades. The way Abby is looking at him, with those eyes of hers wide open, makes something inside him both calm and stir at the same time.

"What is it?" her husky voice is soft as she asks him. "Something you want me to do?"

God, if she knew what he would want her to… But he will never say it.

Forcing his lips to stretch in a smirk that he hopes looks teasing enough, he points his thumb towards the evidence boxes. "Check and sign?"

Abby's eyelids flutter lightly before understanding dawns on her face. "Oh, that… sure," she spins on her heel and again, before he can add anything, she walks away in a direction he is pointing to. "But why the 'Gibbs stare'? I don't need it to do my job."

No she doesn't. She never had. And she doesn't have to know that his intention of intimidating her a bit had nothing to do with the job.

"Just checking if you're still immune."

Abby's low chuckle echoes softly within the walls of the dimly lit lab. "Still am and always will be…" she drawls mockingly.

That, she is. "Maybe I'll just have to try harder."

"Oh, _do_ bring it on!"

And just like that, the good mood between them is back. Or, maybe it was never gone in the first place. Maybe it's just him, reading way too much in between the lines. And why not… with the way he feels, even crankier than he actually allows to show, oversensitive and…

The problem is, reading between the lines is his job and also, his second nature, something he can't just switch off. He can only tell himself to postpone analyzing till some later moment. But it will come back to him, like a wave.

A sharp sound of the security tape being ripped from its roll tells him that Abby has begun re-sealing the boxes. One or two more things and they will be ready to leave for the night. The earlier, the better; no matter how she is trying to act that she is fine, he just knows that she isn't so. She needs the rest and the sooner she can get home, the better. And he can help speeding it up.

As he moves towards the large plasma screen, to turn it off, he suddenly spots something on the floor, an object that doesn't quite belong there. Switching the screen is something that he does without even looking – his hand just knows where the on/off button is. And then, he picks up the large, cork board from the floor and inspects its front.

"This one of _your_ ideas of 'fun'?"

Abby turns to him and at the sight of what he is holding, lightly shrugs her shoulders. "Far from it. It was a group therapy."

"A what?"

"A group therapy," Abby explains as if she was stating the most obvious thing in the world. "Feel like having a go, too?"

He looks at her quite incredulously – as if he would just _have a go_ at throwing darts in the lab at someone's printed photo. Well, throwing darts at _that_ photo doesn't seem like a bad idea… but in the lab…?

Later though, in his basement…

And as always when he doesn't want to answer directly, sarcasm comes handy. "That what you do when you're without adults' supervision?"

Abby knows his sense of humor – and he knows hers and half expects her to stick her tongue at him. But it doesn't happen and neither does she reply with one of her witty comments. Instead, her face contorts in a grimace so odd, he double takes. That hurtful expression of hers is very rare but he has seen it before and recognizes it immediately despite the semi-darkness around them. It's fleeting and Abby quickly pulls herself together – but he _knows_ it was there.

"You can laugh it off as silly," she tells him calmly. "But it did help everyone to vent a bit and to me, that is all that matters. Better that than throwing darts at Jerry himself, don't you think?"

With that, she turns away, finishes off re-sealing the second box with quick, well-practiced movements and stashes both in a neat pile, placing her report on top of it. With a similare calm, she walks over to the computer and busies himself with something he cannot see. Too bad he had turned the plasma off; he could have a preview on whatever she is doing. But whatever it is, it keeps her quite busy – or provides an excuse to ignore his gaze. More likely, the latter.

In his mind, he is trying and failing to understand what in his words could've possibly upset her. Comments like that often fly often across the bullpen when he deals with his team's mischief and she is often the author of both such remarks as well as the initiator of the mischief itself. It's a part of a game they all have been playing for years – the team fooling around and coaxing him to put the seriousness aside and join in, which he sometimes actually does, even if only briefly.

While part of him is trying to make sense of her reaction, another part of him wants to simply apologize. Not literally – that's just not in his style – but somehow.

"Well, I don't think a dart in a face alone would stop Neisler from being a jerk," he acknowledges the first part of the whole deal.

It works. Abby looks up from her monitor and while she isn't smiling, surprise and curiosity do show in her eyes.

"Which one's whose?" he inquiries, motioning at the numerous darts stuck in various places of the photo and of the cork board itself. On the printed face of Petty Officer Jerry Neisler there are neatly drawn out lines of a dartboard, with the bullseye squarely placed between Neisler's thin eyebrows. "Ziva's?" he asks, pointing to the light green dart that sits just inside of the bullseye's line.

"No. Tony's. Ziva used the black one."

He locates it quickly, noticing with surprise that the dart is way outside the bullseye. "Ziva missed?" he asks disbelievingly. That would be the first…

"Have you ever seen our gorgeous Ninja miss?" Abby retorts. "She meant it like that. If you look at his other eye, you will see the mark left by her first shot."

He does, squinting his eyes to see better and indeed – Neisler's right eye does have a little puncture, not easy to spot at first, as it's right in the middle of the blackness of the pupil. The dart in his left eye is stuck in the matching spot.

 _Oh yeah_ , he thinks as he nods with approval. Ziva is one of the people he knows he would definitely never want to piss off. He had known that since the moment he had met her, all those years ago.

In the glow of the lab's Christmas decorations, he scrutinizes all other shots and Abby, when asked, matches the darts' colors to the names. He learns that the lime green one that is stuck the lower neck area is of McGee's doing and the brown one that missed the face entirely, piercing shallowly the bare cork area is not, as he thought, Abby's but Jimmy Palmer's. _Palmer, huh,_ he muses. The almost childishly naïve and kindhearted Medical Assistant doesn't strike as the type who would need physical violence to vent up. And yet! Suppose it takes one Jerry 'Jerk' Neisler and his infuriating 'pseudo-psychoanalysis' no one ever asked for, to bring the poor kid to that.

The one that had been thrown by Abby is the red dart that is now stuck in Neisler's chin. It's nowhere near the Bullseye but what surprises him is that it was actually _aimed_ to hit that spot, just like in Ziva's case. "Ducky said that if done for real, it wouldn't have caused any permanent damage," Abby explains simply and he only listens, eyebrows raised high. "It would have, however, for quite some time, given Jerry a lot of pain every time he would open his stupid big mouth."

With that description of Neisler, he agrees wholeheartedly. Not often one can meet a guy, who, whilst not being a bad guy really, manages to be at the same time an utter jerk. It's been long since they had a case witness that was capable of waking an almost instant loathing in just about everyone.

He tries Abby's dart, surprised just how firmly it is stuck in the board. "Nice shot," he comments as he pulls it out. "You tryin' to beat Ziva in aiming department?"

A snort from behind him tells him clearly what Abby thinks of his question. "Oh, c'mon, Gibbs! _None of us_ can beat Ziva in that," her words only confirm. The clear admiration in her voice causes a little sting somewhere inside him but he forces himself to ignore it. It's not like Abby's admiration has to be reserved for him only, right? "But she is a good teacher. I'm nowhere _near_ hers or your skills, of course," Abby continues and the little sting inside him lessens a little, a fact that he makes himself disregard, yet again, "but Ziva says that my aim is apparently _much_ better when I'm pissed off."

Somehow, it makes sense. Abby is indeed capable of many things when ticked off.

Almost absentmindedly, he pulls out Ziva's dart from the board, too. "What did Neisler say to you?"

It doesn't escape him that Abby keeps silent for that one moment too long. When he looks up at her, her eyes are directed at the screen but he just knows she isn't reading any of what's in front of her. She isn't typing either. "Stuff," she finally replies with a shrug. "Tried to get into my head and analyze my life and work choices, as if someone paid him for his opinion. I'm half tempted to e-mail his parents about his pitiful attempts to parrot their jobs. Not only is his almost every conclusion about what he's observed, wrong. Add his absolute insensitivity to the mix and his gentleness of a rhino in blabbering out his unwanted verdicts and… ugh…" she shivers, as if shaking off something particularly unpleasant. "The slimiest shrink ever."

"He ain't a shrink, Abs," he reminds her.

"Good! And a bit bad, too, in a way! If he was, one could at least legally sue him for his incompetence. And win, big time, have no doubt."

He has to admit that in all her incensed rambling, Abby has a point. Should he ever try to really become a psychiatrist – God forbid anyone from giving him a license – Neisler would simply suck. And oh, but he would gladly do more to Jerry than sue him– not that he would ever, willingly, attend any shrinking session, of course. All those things Neisler said… About his house… Shannon… his work as an agent…

"And what did he piss _you_ off with?"

Abby's question makes him shift uncomfortably again; it's that instinctive need of his, to keep all things to himself, combined with an even stronger need to just tell her. "What makes you think he did?"

His half-assed attempt to deflect is met with Abby's knowing look. "Gibbs, c'mon…" she encourages softly. "Neisler managed to seriously piss off or upset everyone who had a misfortune of spending as little as two minutes with him – and with you, he had spent a majority of the evening. Don't tell me that he kept his mouth shut 'coz that's just not possible in his case. He is that type that feels that he just _must_ share with the rest world what a great, smartass therapist he is. Which, I repeat, he is _not._ Can I take a blind shot?" she asks and waits expectantly, and as he doesn't say a word to stop her, she continues, "Just for starters – did he make some nasty comment about your house?"

That she is right, isn't surprising. Abby is usually right. Seeing no point in further denying, he half nods, half shrugs and just waits for the oncoming rant.

And Abby doesn't disappoint him. "I'm not going to e-mail his parents. I'm gonna drag him to them by the ear," she announces. "What an appalling lack of manners!"

"Abs… it's just a house..."

"The house that he had been _invited_ to!" Abby cuts in, "Do you know that down South, in Louisiana, if you disrespect the household which you are a guest of, you're lucky if a cold shoulder is all you get? Go too far and you're also very likely to receive an invite to see the outer side of the entrance door, effective immediately. Oh – and a badge that says 'persona non grata semper', a nomination announced within the entire social circle you share with the hosts."

Despite himself, he cracks a little crooked, weary smile and then, looks down at the dart board he is holding. He wasn't born and raised 'down South' like Abby but he can more than just relate to the principle. It was one of the things his own mother once taught him. Though now, if he was to use his own words, he would translate Abby's lengthy description simply to, 'out before I shoot' and the 'person no longer welcomed' to 'come back if you have a death wish'.

It's really, really too bad that he'd been bound by his duty to remain professional that night. Assaulting the case witness that had been placed in _his_ protective custody just wasn't an option, no matter how much that witness deserved a punch or two.

The swish of the fabric tells him that Abby is on the move again– and in the next second, she appears in his line of vision. He feels a gentle tug on the board; he lets go of it and watches as Abby walks away towards the wall beneath the sub-basement's windows. There, she places the dart board upright on top of the disposal bin. When she comes back, she is holding all the other darts and silently hands them to him. Something inside him still protests, still wants to say 'no' to it – but the other part of him makes him raise his hand and accept her colorful offering.

As he moves back a few steps, his eyes firmly trained on the photo, everything else gets sort of tuned out. The lab becomes slightly blurry, all the surrounding sounds a bit muted. The only thing he sees sharply – as always when he concentrates on the target – is Jerry Neisler's dumbly smirking face.

His adrenaline spikes rapidly – and before one could count to five, it's done. He assesses his shots with just one glance; each dart _had_ found its intended target, dead on, in fact. And then, with one firm blink of his eyes, he snaps out. Everything around him becomes normal again; his vision is no longer tunnel-like, the sounds around him crystalize. He can again hear the hum of the computer and the quiet squeak of the thick rubber soles of Abby's boots as she walks towards the board. "Neisler didn't comment just about the house, did he?" she asks quietly once she has had a closer look at all of his shots.

"You got my lounge bugged, Abs?"

Even he can hear weariness in his dry non-admission and he has no doubts that Abby can picked on it too. "No need. Special Agent Oracle Abby, remember?" she taps on her temple. Despite the smile that lightly stretches her lips, her eyes hold no teasing twinkle. They are simply full of a warm understanding and he can almost physically feel his remaining defenses crumbling under this understanding gaze of hers. Somehow, without even being present at his house on that evening, Abby _knows_. He can see that knowledge in her eyes. She knows, just like she knows other things about him, in her unique 'Abby way'. "If he said something _just_ about your house, Gibbs, it wouldn't have made you wanna clock him twice in the nose and thrice in the chin. And the darts wouldn't have been stuck all the way to their barrels. He made some comment about your family, didn't he?"

Of course Abby had worked it out.

He doesn't reply to her question, not that he needs to. His silent sigh is all she seems to need. "Him, being a jerk to us, here – that's one thing. But with you? I can't believe it. Someone takes him in for the night, to protect his life and instead of appreciating the kind hospitality, he nitpicks his host on a personal level?" she rants, quietly but fiercely. She begins pacing back and forth, her body coiled. "Seriously, what an ungrateful dumbass!"

"Easy Abs," he tries to admonish before Abby gets ahead of herself. The fact that Abby is so protective over him warms his heart, more that he could ever say but he doesn't want her to worry about him too much. The way he sees it, it is his role to look after her well-being, not the other way round. And Neisler _will_ be dealt with. "He's a jerk but he's gone now."

"Don't you think I know?" Abby agrees. "But that's just the thing! He's gone but left a lot of distaste behind. All the shrinkolas are annoying – God, I still get shivers when I remember the one that did my post-incident psychic evaluation after…" she trails off suddenly in her rapid speech and a grimace contorts her face. "…L.A." she shakily finishes off her sentence. She still paces, though this time in silence. He knows what she is remembering right now but doesn't comment; the lab is not a place to discuss these things safely. The Los Angeles events perhaps took place quite a while ago but being abducted by the serial killer and narrowly escaping death at his hand had marked Abby more than anything else before – and she is still healing, even after all this time. One wrong person learning that this is still an issue for her and Abby faces an immediate psychic eval followed by an unavoidable series of shrinking sessions, something she hates - and fear - as much as he does.

"Anyway, at least shrinkolas are to help… well, in theory – and they're… clinical about digging in," Abby picks up the subject without mentioning the prolonged moment of silence. "But he?" she waves her hands about, "He tried to force enter everybody's heads just for the heck of it, just so he could stomp in there in those enormous, muddied boots of his!"

"Yeah, well," he comments. Abby's metaphor might seem a little too imaginative – but it fits, somehow and he likes it. "Don't know what's worse – him, stomping in my head or leaving the stink of his socks in my lounge."

Abby focuses on him again, her eyes purposively seeking and steadily holding his gaze as he looks back at her. "So, I'm not the only one then who smelled that, huh?"

He gives her a look that speaks volumes. "I might need some professional cleaning service to get rid of the stink."

"That bad?"

"Uh-huh. If he took his boots off, could probably put Pennsylvanian striped skunk to shame."

To anyone else, it might look like he is skirting the main subject. And he is but that is still more than shutting it down altogether. He hopes Abby can understand. She knows what it means that he is talking at all.

"Imagine all his bunk mates, wherever he will be deployed after the court is done with him," she muses. "Poor guys and their noses… Yet another thing he'll get away with."

For a moment, he ponders whether to tell her or not. _Ah, what the hell,_ he gives up. She has managed to drag most of it out of him anyway; one more piece of information won't make much of a difference. "He won't," he says flatly.

Abby knows him too well to overlook his almost bored tone. Her agitation gone, she is now facing him fully, though a few feet away, eyes narrowed. "Gibbs…" she drawls as she slowly folds her arms in front of her, "what did you do?"

He waits a moment, drawing it out. He isn't into drama as much as Abby is but in his line of work he has learnt to appreciate the effect the suspense has on people. And then, he knows what else he can do. He motions with his index fingers, wanting to draw her attention to his hands. Once he has it, he answers her question in sign language, " _Phone call."_

Abby is a person known to be able to fire a good dozen of inquisitive questions in less than twenty seconds flat but this time, no such thing happen. She waits expectantly – which is actually very un-Abby. The only word she gestures is, _"To…?"_

" _My buddy,"_ he supplies a bit more. He could tell her all at once but he doesn't. There is a part of him that enjoys enormously witnessing the speed at which she is able to work out the answers and that part wants to know just how much – or, how _little_ intel she would need this time. He waits till her insistent gaze begins to practically shout at him and then, he fingerspells the name.

Where others _would_ have asked more questions, Abby simply takes off for her computer, the second he has finished fingerspelling. She types so furiously fast on her keyboard that he cannot even distinguish one click of a key from another and, accompanied by a familiar bleep of the Navy's search site, Neisler's personal file appears on the screen. Abby reads something in the section titled 'duty' and goes back to the main search site. Another file opens up – he recognizes the familiar layout of a vessel registry entry. Here, reading consumes her so thoroughly that her body stills completely. Only when he moves closer to stand in his custom position behind her shoulder, she winces and smoothly steps aside, allowing him an unobscured view.

One look at the main photo is enough for him to identify it as a frigate. He then glances at the header – the font is large enough that he can read it without much squinting of his eyes – and smiles. It _is_ the right frigate. Of course it is.

"Meet 'CAPE HORN', where Naughty Petty Officer has been reassigned _today,_ deployment starting immediately post-court case," Abby gestures at the monitor with a flourish. "He will be serving under a certain captain, one in charge of SEALOGLANT*1, who is temporarily stationed on 'CAPE HORN' and whose name is ZuluIndiaLimaLima."

He can only nod in acknowledgement. "Impressive," he praises admiringly.

Abby brightens at his compliment, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Gibbs, please…" to the contrary of her sunny smile, her tone is slightly scolding. "What would I be worth to you… and NCIS, if I couldn't add two and two together?"

Oh, it's more than a simple arithmetic that she does here but that doesn't require any comment. And to him, she is worth much more than the work she does but before he can comment on _that_ one, Abby turns away, her focus back on the files displayed on screen, which she begins to close, one at a time. "So, what's in store for the Petty one?"

Not wanting to say it out loud, he lightly pats on her shoulder, to gain her attention again. _"Laundry room duty. Personal hygiene drills,"_ he signs slowly, carefully choosing the words. It's been a while since he used ASL on more frequent basis so he is a bit rusty. _"Sensitivity trainings."_

Abby's eyes open wide. _Please, tell me they will be permanent, daily and no_ … _"_ he loses her here as her excited signing becomes too fast for him. He frowns and her hands freeze.

"… _and no…?"_ he wants to know the rest.

She signs the requested phrase again, slower this time round and this change of pace is enough for him.

Judging by what Tom Zill, an old buddy of his, has told him over the call on the private line, he can be pretty sure of that – and probably some more. _"No quarters will be given,"_ he repeats Abby's last words to her, his signing deliberately decisive.

" _That is soo naughty! And genius!"_ Abby signs excitedly and then, raises her hands as if to the heavens above. _"Gibbs, you're a genius!"_

What he wants to say next is too complex for him to translate to ASL so he chooses to revert to speech. "Whatever it takes to make a Marine conduct himself right," he states.

Abby spins around and leans over her computer bench. She scribbles something, straightens up and bows to him, her hands in front of her as if in offering. In her fingers, she is holding a yellow post-it sticker with something written on it.

"Allow me the honor of bestowing on you the Honorary Master's Degree in Kickass Punishments."

His lips stretch in smile – it's impossible to stop it – but it's nothing in comparison to how he really feels. Something inside him rejoices victoriously – a bit like an overexcited ten year old would have. He tries to shake it off but fails.

It really is ridiculous what a compliment from Abby and her jokes do to him. "Granted," is all he can say.

She brightens again at the clear amusement in his voice and proceeds to decorate him. One gentle pat – and his 'badge' is already attached to the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Appreciated," he croaks, trying very hard to keep his voice steady.

"Pleasure's all mine."

Looking down at the post-it sticker, he registers a tiny bat in the left top corner – Abby's unofficial signature – and a single word, written in capital letters. From his point of view the word is upside down but that's not a problem – he'd trained himself in reading upside down and could quite fluently read entire pages if he wanted. It says 'MASTER' and he already knows that this little slip of paper is going home with him, for keeps.

Not that he will tell.

Speaking of going home though…

A shrill of a ringtone pierces the peaceful quiet of the lab, startling them both a bit and interrupting his thought. Cursing silently at the offending device, he reaches to his belt and snaps the phone open. "Yeah, Gibbs," he greets tersely and listens to the caller. "Be right up."

"No rest for the wicked?" Abby asks after he's ended the call.

"Nope. Wish Leon hurry up and got better already," he sighs. The chat with Abby had invigorated him but he feels tiredness creeping back in again. Filling in for Vance, who is still recovering from a gunshot, stresses him out more than any field work ever could. He won't, however, dump the duty onto someone else. Just not an option. He gave Leon his word. "C'mon, Abs," he presses, all business again. "Let's get this to the locker."

"No, it's okay," Abby shakes her head. "You go, you have the director things to do."

"You sure?"

Abby nods and he accepts, though grudgingly.

The called lift arrives shortly and he steps inside when Abby's voice stops him mid step. When he turns, he finds Abby right behind him and a part of him marvels idly how she's managed to get behind him without him noticing.

He will have to work harder on tuning his senses sharper, he decides.

"Use it when you get back home," Abby instructs him and in a quick movement, slides a long, flat package into his pocket. And for the umpteenth time this evening, before he can utter a word, she's already twirled like a little tornado and rushed back to her lab.

 _Too much Caf-Pow! again, Abs,_ he makes another mental note.

As the elevator ascends, he reaches into his pocket. Under his fingertips, the item inside the paper wrap feels long and very thin. The curiosity wins. He peeks inside the wrap and smiles.

Incense sticks.

So Abby.

A while later, when he has dealt with all the business he had to and finally makes it home, he retrieves the package again. Normally, he isn't one to bother himself with any household fragrances – the smell of burning pinewood usually suffices – but this time, he ignores his inner voice that calls for simplicity and goes on about setting up the incense. He doesn't have any incense burners – but what is all the wood in his house for? He chooses two fairly flat chunks of pinewood, quickly drills a diagonal hole in each, where he slides the strongly smelling sticks. He lights both and leaves them – one in the hallway and one on the coffee table in the lounge. Then, he is done and ready to retreat downstairs, to immerse himself in some woodworking. Sleep won't come until some later hour of the night anyway.

Much, much later on, when he finally emerges from the basement, something feels different. It takes a moment to get a full grasp on it.

The lounge is the same as hours earlier – quiet, sparsely furnished and devoid of any decorations, save for a single photograph on the mantel piece. It is the air that makes the difference. It's much fresher than before, clean, with hints of pine, seasonal spices, apples and… gunpowder. The smell makes him feel weirdly warm. It's a sensation that cannot be reasonable explained; the room is chilled, as he had not even bothered tonight with lighting the fire in the fireplace or turning the central heating on.

It worked. Of course it did, he thinks with fondness, and makes a mental note to thank Abby the very next time he sees her.

As he later falls asleep on the sofa, he falls asleep still feeling that warmth, warmth that has nothing to do with his comfortable sweats or woolen blanket thrown over his stretched body.

But it's there and it is the type of warmth that really counts.

***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***

1\. SEALOGLANT - Sealift Logistics Command, Atlantic


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **Author's Note:**

Hi everyone! Thank you a lot for your feedback – both in the review section and private messaging box. Each and single one made my day that much nicer!

Please forgive me for any mistakes as English isn't my first language and I didn't have any Beta around to go through it. I hope you'll enjoy anyway.

 **Chapter 3**

It wasn't always that she liked cleaning. There had been years when she wasn't at all bothered by heaps of clothes stashed behind the unmade bed, the cosmetics and tons of other things scattered almost everywhere or books piling up wherever she felt like leaving them. All that had changed during her college days. One of her professors had very early on – and very ruthlessly – drilled into the entire class how important cleanliness was whilst handling the chemicals and that rule gradually seeped into her private life as well. And as the years had gone by, there were other factors that increased her appreciation for neatness. Now, years later, not only is the habit of tidying up deeply embedded in her – she actually finds it quite therapeutic. Not that anyone knows or will ever get to know out that she _enjoys_ cleaning – one could go for example and tease that certain things come with age and that she was perhaps getting domesticated. And she has a reputation of a 'Mistress of the Dark' to protect.

Whatever is still left of it, anyway.

Humming along to the cheerful beat of Christmas themed songs, she does a methodical sweep in her small bedroom and even smaller bathroom. As she moves to the open-plan kitchen, she has warmed up enough that she begins to sing out loud. Singing helps her keep up the holiday spirit – but also to mute at least a little of the sounds of an argument that come from the apartment right above hers. It's getting louder with each screamed out sentence and she can feel that it is nearing its peak. Once it did, it would be over; the feisty couple had always finished with a bang which was followed by hours of silence. Till their next time, that is.

Her routine between the fridge, the dishwasher and the cooker takes only minutes. One does not make much mess when most of one's waking hours are spent at work. And finally, the lounge. Here, there isn't much to do either – the whole space had been thoroughly cleaned up a couple of days ago, when she had put up the Christmas tree and some decorations. All that is left for now is some dusting.

Removing all the items first, she wipes every flat surface with a slightly damp cloth. The pine scented beeswax polish comes next. Every year since moving to Washington, she has her Christmas smelling like she believed they should – of freshness, candles, freshly chopped wood, pine needles, apples with cinnamon, spiced oranges and mulled wine. This year won't be any exception - it doesn't matter that the special guests scheduled to fly down for this year's Christmas won't be coming after all.

It doesn't matter at all. At all.

That's what she keeps repeating to herself.

Done with the coffee table and the bookshelves she moves on to the wall with pictures. That's the last thing for today. Swiftly, she wipes the dust, smiling warmly at the highlights of her life that are embedded within the frames.

She and Carol, hugging and laughing on her friend's last birthday. Carol, her scientific buddy and the best party companion ever during their college days and now, her personal guru when it comes to infectious diseases.

Team Gibbs, gathered around Ducky's table last year, all wine glasses in the air. Probably her best Thanksgiving ever – at least since she had moved to D.C.

She and the L.A Team., all of them posed with guns as if for the poster of some blockbuster action movie. They're all tall – except for Hetty Lange, who, despite appearing almost microscopic amongst them, has this awesome badass air about her which makes her no less intimidating than the bulky figures of G. Callen and Sam Hanna.

She owes these people, to the whole team. Big, big time.

Taking another frame off its tiny hook, she just has to grin. But then again, there is something about the roguish grin of Mike Franks, something so infectious that makes people respond the same way, even if it's just a snapshot.

Another photo, of herself, Luca, the ancient and frail Gran Sciuto, Great Aunt Gertrude, surrounded by the handful of their uncles and their families, during Christmas a few years ago.

A few more various shots with Luca; one at the building site of 'Habitat for Humanity', one at her graduation and one sporting two heads sticking out from a tent. The last one is centuries old, taken back when they were both in their pre-teens.

On and on she goes, through the photos of her other friends, till she gets to the last photos, her special part of the wall. Here, it's a bit harder to smile but she does it anyway.

First, a photo of a young woman in the Navy uniform, whose gentle, hazel eyes only partially betray an enormous intelligence of their owner. Lieutenant Clea Thorson, whose brilliant work had made such an impact on her own mind... Oh, how she wishes that they could have had met when Clea was still alive…

Next, a still of herself and Jenny Sheppard in almost girly-like embrace at one of the NCIS Christmas parties, their late Director's unusual physical display of affection having much to do with too much eggnog and wine consumed that evening. She was still missed, both as a Director, as well as a friend.

Another one is a group photo of Team Gibbs, gathered what it feels like a hundred years ago to celebrate Kate's first year as an NCIS agent. All faces beaming – captured as they all laughed sincerely at, as she remembers, one of Tony's funnier jokes – and all looking so, so much younger than today! These faces have changed so much since then… all but one. She fingers gently the outline of Kate's brown hair. Her best friend will always stay forever young…

"Oh, Kate…" she whispers. What wouldn't she give to have Kate back amongst the living!

And another photo… Herself, a good decade younger, sandwiched between a beaming Ducky and the then-still-mostly-dark-haired Gibbs, the three of them flanked by Stan Burley and Chris Pacci. Chris; another face that will not change with age…

And finally, the last one.

On the photo, dated 07/87, the stunningly beautiful face of her mother is lit by the afternoon Louisiana sun – and also, by her dreamy smile that is directed right at the camera. Her head is tilted slightly to the side, just so the man who stands next to her can place a loving kiss on her cheek. The sunlight makes both of her parents' light brown hair glow like a pair of golden halos. That family picnic at the Lake Salvador is one of her favorite moments of her early teenage years – and one of the last shots she had personally taken of her father.

"Merry Christmas, guys," she says with difficulty to all the photos. "I wish so much you were still here…"

With resolve, she smiles at every photo and resumes her cleaning. Clea, Jenny, Kate, Pacci and her parents – they all are gone now but not forgotten. They never will be. Never, ever.

She is half way turning to go back to the kitchen, when someone upstairs shuts the door with so much force that the thin internal wall shake. It's sudden but not uncommon so she merely winces. She ignores it, like always, but in the next second, a noise of something crashing explodes behind her and this time, she actually jumps, almost dropping the cleaning equipment.

One doesn't have to be an experienced forensic scientist to recognize the sound of the shattering glass. But forensic scientists hear more than just a sound. Before she even turns to face the little disaster, her mind has already runs an instinctive, initial calculation, taking into consideration the size of the frame and the thickness of the glass. She knows the measurements of every single of her frames.

And she is right.

A large, silver and black painted frame lies upside down by her feet, pieces of glass scattered underneath it and all over the waxed floorboards. Before she even picks it up, she knows it must have fallen at an angle, one of its corners having taken the force of the impact; the angles of the deformation speak to her loud and clear.

Oh, she will _so_ have a word with the feisty couple later, as well as with the landlord. Not that he will actually do anything. He never does.

Now, however, she has to check the extent of the damage.

Carefully, she removes the remaining shards. The photo is bent and slightly scratched. That's a loss but not irreparable; she has a digital copy on her spare drive and can always print another one. It's the frame that matters. It's one of the little gifts she had received from Kate, things she considers priceless and irreplaceable. Luckily, it snapped at the joints and bent out of shape but had not splintered. With some effort, she will be able to fix it.

But what matters even more is the item hidden behind the photo.

She stares at the small pencil drawing, checking for any damage and breathes out with relief when she finds none. It had been the very last gift from Kate, this time handmade, not bought, something so private and precious that she has kept it hidden from absolutely everyone throughout all these years. Everyone would have certainly appreciated the level of Kate's talent poured into the mini caricature but she can't allow anyone to see it. One doesn't have to be a trained investigator to understand its meaning. She herself had only needed a glance.

Even today, she can easily recall Kate's voice and the question her friend had asked her after they had had exchanged the knowing looks above Kate's drawing. It's vivid, as if Kate was really standing in front of her. _"Are you going to ever tell him, Abs?"_

Her eyes rest on the magnetically handsome face of a man on the drawing. Back then, she had flippantly laughed it off, _"Maybe one day."_ And back then, she still had her hopes high. Today, however… "No, Kate," she says to the emptiness of her apartment, an emptiness that is filled only with the beautiful seasonal fragrances and the cheerful music. "No point."

At the pang of longing that squeezes her heart, she merely takes a deeper breath. This longing isn't anything new to her, neither is it something she can't deal with. She's had years of experience of living with this heartache, daily. She's used to.

Gently, she puts everything away on one of the top shelves and once again, returns to the process of tidying up. She picks up as many glass shards as she can and after throwing them out, she pulls the vacuum cleaner out of the storage.

A couple of minutes later, the floor looks like nothing ever happened.

Humming along again to the tune that comes from the speakers, she goes to the kitchen. She is on call this weekend but so far, it looks like it's going to be a quiet, uneventful Saturday. There is a chance she can actually make it to the shop to replenish her food supplies. And maybe, just maybe, hit some last minute private party somewhere.

It is when she's on her knees and checking the cupboard when another tune reaches her ears. It's quieter than the music from the speakers but she only needs to hear the first few notes from it to know who the caller is. She sprints to her bedroom where she had left her phone, the solemn 'The Godfather' ringtone beckoning her insistently. Then, just as she grabs her cell, it stops.

As she inspects the blue lit screen, she notices to her surprise that she has missed more than just one call.

Blaming the noise of the earlier vacuuming, she redials.

"Ciao, bella!" a teasing voice greets her after just one ring. "Good you're calling back. I was just about to put BOLO on you."

"Hey, Tony! Why BOLO?"

"Well, you know, when you don't pick up within the first five seconds, I merely raise one eyebrow. One missed call, I raise both of them, although I still might let the whole thing slide if you answer the second one. But two missed calls and I think 'uh-oh' and three – 'uh-oh' on the national emergency level."

Tony's joke makes her chuckle. "Glad then I called back before you raised any alarms," she comments. "Sorry. I simply didn't hear the ring."

"You didn't hear the ring? _You?_ How is that possible, no party on this planet can ever make you part with your phone… Oh, wait… Are you busy with little _'something something'_ that I should not interrupt?" Tony's voice drops, suddenly gaining sultry, suggestive tones.

Trust Tony to always redirect every topic back to the gutter! She chuckles again at her friend's never-ending antics and decides to reciprocate in similar manner. "Well, if you really need to know, I was busy doing something you usually pay for, to get it done."

"Intriguing! Can I come and watch?"

"But of course, Tony!" she agrees lightly, "Although I wasn't aware that you get excited by watching women as they're running around with vacuum cleaners. Makes an interesting fetish though."

Tony's confused, "Whaa-?" makes her chuckle yet again. "I was using a vacuum cleaner," she explains, "You know, that small, electricity powered machine you use to remove dirt or something that spilt on the floor? The one on wheels? It makes a lot of noise. That's why I didn't hear the phone ring."

"Vacuuming, huh?" Tony's voice sounds slightly disappointed. "Wow. Things must be really slow in Casa Di Sciuto then."

"Oh, Tony, you know very well that 'slow' does not exist in Abbyland. Tonyland is quite the contrary, however," she changes the subject, "Either you are bored to the bone on this fine Saturday afternoon or something went horribly wrong in Casa di DiNozzo. C'mon – what broke?"

Instead of a verbal reply, she gets a long, almost howling moan that just _can't_ be caused by a real pain. "My heart, just now…" Tony finally coughs out. "Ouch! You mean woman, you! How can you doubt me? Can't I simply call my friend, no reason at all?"

"Can? Yes, anytime," she smirks knowingly. "Do you, ever? No. You always have a reason, Tony."

"Aw, you know me too well, Abs," Tony's voice grumbles good-naturedly over the line. "Okay, I admit. I need you, Abs. Like, really bad. Something is wrong with my home cinema set. And before you say anything, yes, I have tried to fix it myself and still, no idea what the problem is. And yes, I _have_ called my service. They said they can't promise to send anyone today and since Christmas is just around the corner, the earliest they can do is on Wednesday. That's inhuman, right? Imagine, Christmas without any movies! Anyway, I do know one guy that knows about this stuff but is out of town on business. Same for McGeek, he said he would have helped but is away till Monday. You're my last resort, Abs! I will not survive so many days without watching _some-thing,_ " he moans again. "Help me Abby One Kenobi – you're my only hope!"

A new pet name. Nice. She likes it that Tony always comes up with something fresh every now and then. "Okay… but tell me one thing. If I am Abby One Kenobi, Ziva's _padawan_ , then what does that make Ziva?" she teases.

"Zi-Gon Jinn? Qui-Gonn Zee?" Tony's reply is almost immediate.

"I see you've given it a _lot_ of thought," she chuckles, fully disarmed now. "Okay, listen… Do you think you can survive without watching _some-thing_ till later on this evening? I really have to go shopping first."

"Hey, if you're willing to come and resuscitate whatever is in need for tech support, I will be just as willing to sacrifice my sanity and assist you on your girly shopping spree. I'm good with clothes, including underwear. Just say a word."

"' _Girly_ shopping', Tony? Take that back or I'll terminate our friendship for such insult!" Anyone else would have taken her solemn threat seriously but Tony just cackles. "Just Christmas shopping, that's all."

"Ha! The presents! Now, _that,_ I just have to assist you with!"

"Ha! You wish, Tony! But you missed, sorry! I have already taken care of the gifts, some time ago, actually. The today's trip is much more mundane," she pretends to complain. "I have to do what everyone hates – the big, boring grocery shopping."

"Now, Abs – _that_ is an insult! There's nothing wrong with grocery shopping! Food needs full attention and celebrating. Every Italian will tell you that."

"…says the Italian dude who worships takeout pizza," she can't stop herself from firing back. "Listen, I should get going. I should be done by, I hope, four pm, max five? An extra thirty minutes to drop everything at home and then, I'm all yours. Do you think you can survive without your digital shrine till six?"

"I'll do my best."

"Hang on tight in there. Your personal technical support's ETA is 1800h."

"Copy that," Tony confirms. "See you at six then!"

"Oh, and Tony?" she calls out but he's already disconnected the call. Yup. Gibbs' way of cutting the phone calls had definitely rubbed off on him.

She swipes through the phone's menu and taps on the text messaging icon.

 _ **'You'd better have that pizza when I get there, Tony SkyNozzo. I'll be famished. Abby 1K.'**_

A few seconds later, a reply arrives.

 _ **'Consider it done, oh Abby One.'**_

She chuckles, amused. Tony and his rhymes…

A few hours later, not only is she being treated to a delicious pizza – a homemade one, a DiNozzo family recipe, Tony's own cooking for once – but also, to a movie. "C'mon, Abs! We gotta run a test to see if your surgery actually worked," Tony jokes, cheerfully ignoring the glare she sends him at him upon hearing the word 'if'. And the test, something that is supposed to be only a two minute thing, ends two hours, two pizzas, a couple of apple ciders and sodas, and a bowl of popcorn later.

"I owe you for this, Abs," Tony is adamant. "Name your price."

"Shut up, Tony, it's not a biggie."

"To me, it is."

"But you already fed me this deliciousness, that's plenty for me."

"Not for me," Tony pops one of the chilled sodas open and gives the can to her. "Name it."

"Okay, fine…" she agrees, pondering some ideas. "I've been meaning to go out someplace fancy but I don't have anybody to go with. Let me use you as my super-hot dinner escort and we're good."

"No problema, Signorina Sciuto. Hot is my middle name," Tony grins in his classic DiNozzo style. "And it will be my pleasure. Finally, after all these years of painful pining, I got to be picked from the rabble of males surrounding you and having the honor of taking you somewhere… wait… what?" he pauses and turns to her so suddenly that it gives her a start, "What do you mean you don't have anybody to go out with? You always have like, an entire queue of men that are dying to be your date!"

She takes measured sips of her soda, stalling for more time. Tony does the same with his apple cider but his eyes are firmly on her. "Well," she shrugs, "the thing is, it is me who is _not_ dying to go out with them. Actually, I've kind of given up on dating."

She knows her reply would surprise Tony but not to this extent. Half amused, half concerned, she pats her friend's back as he coughs intensively, choking on the cider that must have gone down the wrong pipe.

"You _what_?"

"I've given up on dating. Why? What's the big deal?"

"Yeah, right. You're just pulling my leg, Abs," from the way Tony is looking at her, she feels like running to the Venice mirror in the hallway to check if perhaps a second head had sprouted out of her neck. "Everyone knows that sooner hell freezes over than Abby Sciuto quits dating."

"I hate to break it to you, Tony, but that is rather about you."

"I hate to break it to you, Abs, but you are in the same club as I. We're the same type, the forever and ever dating ones!"

"Well, count me out of the club then. And if you don't believe me, take a trip to hell and check if it has frozen over already. And don't forget to take good pictures for the rest of us," she laughs it off.

Tony joins in but his chuckle is far from being amused. "Why? Something happened?"

"Nah…" she dismisses. She's meant to say it as a joke, forgetting for a second how good Tony is at cutting right to the chase if he only wants to. A mistake she shouldn't have allowed herself: he is Gibbs' school, after all. "Not really. It's just for… some time now, most of my dates ended up disappointing, many on the very first evening out. You know, those with a short living or even a fake spark, those that are just a waste of time," she shrugs again. It's tricky for her, to reveal only a part of the truth _and_ also make it sound light. "And my latest one was the last straw; the guy freaked me out so I decided…"

"Freaked you out?" Tony cuts in. Any of his previously remaining playfulness gone, he is all business now. Crap. So much for making it sound light. "Abs, why didn't you tell us anything? Does Gibbs know? No, of course he doesn't, otherwise he would have been already breathing down the guy's neck, with us lot right there with him. You'd better tell me right now what happened."

"Tony, it's not…"

"What did he do to you? Did he harass you? Threaten you? Hurt you? Is he still bothering you?"

"Tony…" she tries again.

"I want his name and address so I can start taking care of it, Saturday or not. And don't you even try with any of your 'Just don't tell Gibbs!' because you know very well I'm not gonna go for it! Jeez – if he finds out that I knew and he was kept out of the loop, he'll skin me alive and… "

With a growl of frustration, she presses her hand against his mouth and Tony's next words come out as an incoherent mumble from between her fingers. "Anthony DiNozzo Jr, would you chill, please," she says softly. Tony's protectiveness can almost rival Gibbs' own and it is, besides the situations of a real threat looming over head, a little exasperating. And she really doesn't want her friend to worry for nothing because there is nothing to worry about. "You don't have to report to Gibbs because there's nothing to tell. It's not what you think. Nothing happened. Nothing really bad, I mean," she tries to explain. "He just did something that kind of spooked me."

"What was that?"

"But don't laugh, please."

"Abby…"

"He… proposed."

Tony coughs again, though this time, luckily, no cider is involved. "He _what_?"

"He proposed."

"Proposed? Dude, that's big! How long have you known each other?"

"It was our second date."

"Are you serious?" Tony looks honestly shocked. "On a _second_ date?"

"I know, right? It's like, hey, I barely just went out with you last week and this week you go with all the 'you're the only one for me, I can't imagine my life without you, so, would you like to marry me, possibly next weekend, please'?"

"Yikes," Tony looks like he is trying to shake off something nasty. It's not a surprise; there's nothing else Tony fears more than such a commitment. The fatal undercover job involving Jeanne Benoit had left him somehow scarred and she is probably the only one he'd talked to about it. He's over that woman now but the residual, old pain and the fear remained somewhere deep down. "Is that what he said?"

"Pretty much… minus the next weekend thing - that's just me, being overdramatic. He found it hard to accept it that we were not on the same page with the whole 'love at first sight' thing. Heck, he was even convinced that all he needs to do is to 'give me more time', and I will surely join him on that page. Too bad I had to end things right there and then. I actually quite liked him. But I couldn't lead him on."

"Abs, but this sounds like the guy got a little more than just a _little_ clingy. Be honest – is he the next Mikel Mowher type?"

Now it's her time to shiver. She would have gladly erased that name from her memory, if she only could. But she can't; that's her crazy brain alright. It is capable of recollecting the events from her life practically at will but the problem is that the images are almost too vivid. It's of course uber-helpful at work, as it allows her a quick access to all her previous science related experiences, great when it comes to nice personal memories but Holy Mother of Einstein, it's an ugly business when it comes to the sad or scary ones. And the vividness of these occurrences only gets more intense the older she gets. It hadn't always been like that.

Keeping herself happy and very, _very_ busy is the key.

Pinching herself discreetly on the leg to distract herself from the unwanted images, she places gently her other hand on Tony's forearm. "Tony, I'd learned my lesson back then. The answer is no. Daniel's the polar opposite of Mikel. Smart, quiet, level-headed, focused… loves books. He has a normal job, he's a librarian. A _librarian,_ Tony! Doesn't get more boring than that. And before you ask for his full name so you can run a background check on him, let me tell you that I am way ahead of you in that department. Checked him before the first date, if you wanna know. Totally traceable, all his life in one place, only twice holidayed outside of the country, no criminal record, no mental health issues, pays his taxes, mom's a high school teacher, dad works for DC Archives and his little sister has announced on Facebook that she just got engaged – to a fellow teacher," she counts out her findings. "They all are as normal and boring as they get."

"And he? Has he accepted that it's over?"

"Yeah. He did call me after but I told him all the same again. He sounded heartbroken but accepted. Haven't heard from him since."

"And when was that?"

"About two months ago… Just before Halloween."

"So, the guy proposes and that is enough to put you off dating."

"Wouldn't you be put off if you were in my shoes?" she shrugs again lightly. It looks like she had convinced him because Tony is calm now. "But like I said, it wasn't just him… so I decided to take a break and focus more on my professional career. And if I want to go out somewhere really cool, I'd rather go out with a good friend, like you, who knows me and doesn't have any unreasonable expectations."

"Oh, Abs, how you wound me! And there I was, ecstatic that I finally got a chance with you… You really are a heartbreaker."

The change of the tone of Tony's voice is so sudden that it gives her a pause. But it's welcomed, too. "Fix it with the superglue," she counters. "Just come to my lab, I have tons of the stuff."

"It's a date then."

"Anytime."

"Funny though. When you said you wanna go 'someplace fancy', I didn't realize that you actually meant your lab," Tony grimaces. "Do you need a dictionary to understand the word 'fancy' and 'cool'?"

She elbows Tony lightly. "Hey! My Labby _is_ cool!"

"Yeah – when the AC system is working fine."

She chuckles, glad for the mood between them lightened up again. It's almost too easy to joke like this with Tony. Somebody could think that they flirt, and maybe they do a little but there's no real heat behind it. Tony is a hunk, sure, and years back, when they first met, she did feel the temptation – but now she is glad that they've never crossed that line. It would have been fun back _then_ – and only that, the _fun_ , with no romantic spark. In a long run it would have complicated everything. Today they are both different and their friendship is amongst those she values the most. And one of the things that connect them is their nearly identical sense of humor. Jibing at each other is just their thing.

Tony finishes the last sip of his cider and puts the bottle on the glass coffee table, finding some space between other empty bottles, cans, dirty plates and used cutlery. When he gets up, the dark leather of his expensive sofa creeks quietly. "So, when do you wanna go?" he calls from the kitchen.

"Right after Christmas?"

"Mi dispiace, Abs, I already have plans…"

"No worries. How about even later?" she suggests. "The Christmas time will be overbooked and terribly overpriced, as always. After the New Year's Eve meals should be cheaper so we can afford more."

"Sometime in January, then. Consider it done, Signorina Sciuto," Tony peeks from around the kitchen's corner. "Do you want one more soda?"

"Sure, why not."

And just as he holds out the unopened soda can to her, her backpack suddenly explodes with a cacophony of multiple gun fires. She sighs and fishes her cell out. There is no need to check the screen; the tune had already told her who the caller is. "Abby Sciuto speaking," she answers and silently listens to the information from the dispatch team. "Tell them I can be there in about thirty minutes."

"Balboa caught a case?" Tony asks when she hangs up.

"Yup," she confirms and Tony nods. There's no need to add anything else; Tony knows the drill of a life being on-call. Phone calls that interrupt at any given time of the day or night are just part of their lives.

She stands up, making sure that her flannel shirt is fully buttoned up. Otherwise, the cold will later seep under her coat and give her a chill.

"I was right then. You really are Abby One Kenobi," Tony jokes as they walk to the door. "You are everyone's only hope."

"Ya think?"

Tony blinks and his facial expression is so funny, she chuckles.

"Geez, you sounded just like Gibbs just now!"

"Well, he rubs off on everyone, I guess," she laughs off her friend's complaint and shrugs her winter coat on. "Enjoy your movie night."

"Wait, I will walk you to the car."

"No need, Tony. I'm not a child."

"No, but you're my friend and my best target practice at honing my gentleman's manners," Tony grabs her backpack before she can. "A lady needs to be walked to her car when's dark."

"And now, who sounds like Gibbs?"

"Yeah, he does seem to have a bad influence on me," Tony grins widely.

"Tell him that in a face, maybe he will reconsider a major character changing."

"More like a major changing in the head slap volume," as always, Tony has to try and have the last word. They both crack up, their voices bouncing off the walls of the long, empty corridor. "I'd rather not get a concussion this way, thank you very much."

When they step outside, the bitter cold December air hits them like a wave. She turns to Tony and somehow only now, realizes that he is standing in the frosty air wearing only his zip-up sweater. He, with his Y-Pestis scarred lungs, so prone to catching chills!

"Tony, you Muppet, where the heck is your coat? Get your butt back inside before you freeze, now!"

"Yes, _mum_ ," Tony rolls his eyes at her but gives her the backpack and steps back through the threshold.

She hugs him quickly and walks down the front steps, careful not to slip on the ice-covered concrete. The last thing she needs right now is to break a leg. "And tell your landlord to do something with this ice! It's dangerous!" she calls oout.

"I will."

Her beloved Coupe coughs back to life at the first try and she pats the steering wheel affectionately. Pulling away from the curb, she waves to Tony one more time.

As she drives to the Yard, her mind semi-focused on the iced streets of Washington, she ponders about Balboa's case and throws a little wager at herself whether she would be able to reach the Yard before them or not. Balboa's team works at a slightly different pace than Team Gibbs, with Balboa taking more time at the scene, as he prefers his team brainstorming on site rather than back at the Yard. She will probably get there way before them and have enough time to fire up all her babies so they're ready and warmed up when the first evidence arrives.

And somewhere underneath the conscious, work-related thoughts, another one lurks and willfully refuses to be ignored, no matter how hard she tries.

Stupid brain.

" _It doesn't matter,"_ she tried to dismiss it, thinking of what she'd accidently spilled to Tony. Stupid big mouth. She hadn't really meant for their conversation to stray in this direction. _"Even so,"_ she consoles herself, _"no big damage done_. Tony is a friend and he cares for her. It wasn't the first time they talked about each other's love life. He'll keep it to himself. And if not… _It doesn't matter,"_ she tells herself again. _"Everyone knows anyway…"_

And indeed – it wasn't like it was big of a secret that her dating department had suffered in the recent months. Being placed under protective detail doesn't exactly allow one to go out and she had voiced her displeasure enough times. And once the nightmare of the Reynosa Cartel was over and she finally _could_ go out… well, the workload got so heavy for everyone that she simply lacked the energy. Right until December even Tony had precious little time and the energy for the 'ladies'.

There was just only one 'but'. It wasn't just the recent months. She had allowed everyone to believe that, blaming it on the officially known circumstances but it has in fact been going on for much longer. Looking back, she can judge quite mercilessly; the past year – hell, the past _years,_ period – had been a steady decline. For a long time now, her dates could be described only as a streak of failures and disappointments. And the biggest one of all… The way that man had shown an obviously non-platonic interest in her and how she fell for it…

She scowls and her hands instinctively grip the leather steering wheel tighter. Even now, after all these months, even thinking of Alejandro makes her angry. Angry at him – and at herself, too. She had allowed herself to believe that perhaps she was, after all, capable of attracting an intriguing, sophisticated, worldly man instead of just losers. But in the end, the smoking hot Mexican official turned out to be even worse than all the losers she has allowed to be her short-term boyfriends. He was worse! The whole hot flirting thing had been just an act. An act! It was all just to make her more willing to visit Mexico and there…

The unpleasant images flood her rapidly and she grips the steering wheel so tightly that she feels a painful tension in her knuckles. Even today she couldn't forgive herself. She doubts she ever will. She should have noticed something! Looking back, she can see that there had been some warning signs, right from the start – but she, so hyper about her role as an international lecturer, failed to notice them. By the time she started having her suspicions, it had been already too late. Everything was sealed the second she had caught that infamous bullet thrown at her by Paloma Reynosa – but she realized the existence of the trap only once she had checked the old NIS files and understood who Pedro Hernandez really was. The trap closed, forcing her hand against Gibbs. Against _Gibbs_! Those were probably the most heart tormenting moments of her life. Never again! She won't, _ever_ , let anyone fool her or use her again as a tool. Maybe if she had noticed, maybe none of these horrible things would have happened… Maybe, if she had played it cool and hadn't requested Hernandez' exhumation… no one over there would have been able to make a match. Or, if she hadn't gotten that stupid idea to take the class into the field… or better yet, if she hadn't gone to Mexico in a first place… Maybe if she rebuffed Alejandro's advances instead of flirting with him…

God, did she really have to meet that man? It was after him that she started almost maniacally observe her next dates, watching out for the same inconsistencies she noticed between Alejandro's words and his body language. She wasn't able to relax for many, many weeks, too coiled to truly enjoy any outings. Daniel was the first one with whom she had forced herself to let her guard down a bit. And things appeared quite promising with him. He wasn't at all the breathtaking, 'sweep-you-off-your-feet' kind of a guy but he wasn't that boring either. At least, she wasn't bored to tears. He was simply as normal as they get; with a steady, safe job, literate and outspoken enough to hold an interesting conversation, pleasant enough physically and with the nice manners of a man raised to respect women. She knew that many other women would have considered him quite a catch and so, with this in mind, she had been determined to stick to it. Who knows, maybe they would have spent a really nice few weeks or months… or _maybe_ even more, if it hadn't been for his unexpected move on that second date… His sudden proposal had both freaked her out and instantaneously cooled that small spark in her to zero; she couldn't treat seriously a guy who jumps with such a proposition like a bunny from a hat. And even if he _had_ been serious about her, if he really had fallen for her so bad… she couldn't. She had enough conscience not to lead a guy on and let him believe that they could one day be more. Because they just couldn't. Being who she was, liking what she liked and seeing what she'd seen, she just did not believe in the whole marriage thing. He could ask her friends and everyone would have confirmed, she had explained to him. And had he actually gone this far, she knew that everyone would indeed, do just that. Everyone around knows that she just really isn't a marrying material.

No, she isn't.

And there are days that she actually believes in it herself. She has been selling this version of herself for so long that it almost became true to her, too. Almost. Because deep down, despite actually _wanting_ for it to be true, she knows the real reason of it all too well. She could never lie convincingly – and surely enough, not to herself.

She indeed isn't a marrying material. How could she be – when her heart is already taken, once and for all? How could she let any man believe that they could build something serious whilst she knows that there is one particular man who owns her heart, wholly and irrevocably, forever? That it isn't going to ever change, she knows for sure; she's tried to move on from this feeling like, four thousand, three hundred and eighty plus times, day after day, for years. And the result was that today she loves him even more. She is forever branded – as cliché as it sounds – by a love that will never to be reciprocated the way she wants. That sets her chances of ever settling down in a happy relationship with someone to around zero percent. It sucks. Sometimes she feels like a heroine of one of those daytime soap operas on TV that cause brain hemorrhage; a heroine stuck against her better judgment and unwilling and yet, participating anyway.

And it sucks. Like, really, really, royally sucks.

For many years now, she has always had tree answers to this problem.

One – date casually only. It's _so_ much easier this way. Cards on the table up front, have fun and be done, both parties satisfied or not, depending on the performance – but no hard feelings, as there were no high expectations held to begin with.

Two – be surrounded by family and friends. They filled her life enough for her to feel cherished and needed. Thanks to them she rarely feels lonely.

And in those moments when her inner loneliness threatens to engulf her anyway, she's always has the third option – the one she always escapes to when everything and everyone else fails to console her.

Science.

Her only other love that never betrayed her, never disappointed her. Science feeds her. Science means a mental fuel and a healthy focus for her ever busy brain, a challenge without the risks of losing something. It means having a good time without any unreasonable expectations and excitement without any judgment. It's predictable and yet, still exciting, safe and yet, thrilling. Plus, she gets paid for it. And the only thing required of her for this intellectual development is her time. That, she can always give, happily. Science is something that, as she believes, defines her, something that makes her feel useful, meaningful – and needed. For that, she gladly studies everything she can get her hands on, attends every available scientific conference and engineering expo. It makes it all more exciting that she can almost immediately apply every newly learnt trick in practice – all she needs to do is to simply get back to her lab. After all these years of her working there, nobody even blinks an eye at her long hours or the odd arrival times. She has practically unrestricted access, something she often takes advantage of, even outside of her working hours. The lab is just… hers. It doesn't matter that it is in fact a government's property; she has long since claimed it and branded it as hers and it is something no one even thinks of questioning. Not even Leon Vance. If she could have it her way, she would even gladly make her little nest on the Yard, preferably in the back room behind the Ballistics Lab. Too bad that it is never going to happen. The long days, the extra weekends and her sneaky 'sleepovers' will have to do.

As she finally drives into the Yard's parking lot, she just has to smile. Flashing her ID at the gate is just a formality; the guards recognize her car and her in it. Home, she thinks with fondness, as she looks at red brick buildings. It _is_ her home. Home – with walls that provide safety, with people within them whom she loves dearly and call a second family – and with rules and regulations that she likes to undermine every now and then.

And like in every household, there is always some housework to be done.

Her beloved Labby and her babies were calling to their Momma, she could almost hear it.

But first, she has to do something about this gloominess that somehow had managed to invite itself into her mind. Her brain, her pride, is quite annoying at times, too. For all its useful capability of multi-managing a few different trains of thoughts all at once, the problem is that it sometimes some of these trains break free and depart in unwanted directions. And she doesn't like herself brooding. Brooding and gloominess are unwelcome in Abbyland; they are physically unpleasant, deepen the wrinkles and leave a bitter aftertaste on her tongue –and she definitely prefers the sweet over the bitter.

 _I need caffeine,_ she thinks. Her favorite sweet Caf-Pow! – or two, or three – should help.

It usually does.

 *****NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the rights to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **I only play with them for fun ;)**

 **Author's Note:**

Hi there, fellow NCIS fans! Firstly, a massive 'thank you' to everyone who left a comment or PM-ed me. I appreciate every feedback and every correction. And I am so, so glad that you like it so far!

Secondly – Alex, thank you for being my sounding board (again!)

Thirdly and finally – to all of you – please forgive me for any mistakes. English isn't my first language and I didn't have any Beta around to go through it. Also, which I keep forgetting to mention - this story is my first shot at writing in the Present Tense and it still feels like a minefield to me.

.

 **Chapter 4**

With two large cups of Caf-Pow! in a handy cardboard holder, she walks into the building. Once her signature is on the daily security log at the entrance, she takes the main lift in the lobby straight down to the lab. There's no point taking the everyday detour via the Squad room; at the moment, there's no one in the bullpen anyway. This is why she is in her domain in less than fifteen seconds rather than after the usual fifteen minutes that she spends with the team almost each morning. The lab's door is locked and the first thing she does after opening it is to hit the light switch. The darkness disperses and she makes her way to the fridge, where she deposits her Caf-Pow! and then to her still unlit office, where she leaves the backpack and the coat. The rest is just a matter of a few minutes. Waking her beloved electronic babies up is something she could do probably even in her sleep.

When she logs in to her work account, there are over eighty new e-mails waiting for her. Nothing unusual. During the weekdays, she would have dealt with them the moment they arrived but twenty four hours away from the keyboard means the e-mails just keep piling up. For years and years, she had simply read them at home but that's another of those things she can no longer do, courtesy of the decision that came from the very top of their ladder. Their Director, 'By-The-Book' Vance, had turned a deaf ear to her reasoning that quite a lot of these e-mails often _happen_ to be urgent and redirected her to some of the agency's rules and regulations.

There were many but it was the rule about logging in from the NCIS approved, secure devices that she had expected she would have to fight against. Her laptop is, as she had tried to reason with Vance, no less protected than the computers at NCIS, _has_ got the official NCIS programming installed on it – installed with the _Director's_ own permission, as she hadn't hesitated to remind him – and her network at home goes through regular and rigorous checks. Oddly enough, Vance didn't question her laptop being a secure, NCIS approved device, or her ability to make her network safe – he was more focused on emphasizing that work should be dealt with _at workplace_ and simply left there once the official working hours were over. For the afterhours was the out-of-office automatic reply. "Oh, it's very useful and I'm sure it works in Legal or Accounts Departments. The MCRT is _not_ the textbook nine-to-five though," was her reply – a _very_ calm one, considering that in her head she was roftling on the office's floor, howling like a laughing hyena at the mere thought of putting 'MCRT', 'official working hours' and 'out-of-office reply' together in one sentence. But she hadn't managed to convince Vance to look through his fingers. Whether she pulled nine-to-five or more, it didn't matter; her work was to be left at work and he warningly promised to keep tabs on that. And he _has_ , so far. Hence the piles of the weekend mail.

Feeling like she could do with a little boost of energy before diving into that metaphorical pile, she retrieves one of her Caf-Pow!s from the fridge. "C'mon, my sweet, give me a little wakey wakey," she chants after a few sips. There's no reason to drink more just yet – she doesn't expect Agent Balboa to come back for at least another hour. _Then,_ she will need more energy.

Waiting for the caffeine to kick in, she eyes the long list of all the unread messages. Amongst the system junk, the delivery reports, her subscriptions and the numerous 'to-all' agency memos, only a few are marked 'urgent' this time. After having read them all, she replies to each one, attaching what was requested and then, slower, goes through the rest of the list. She is well into the sixth dozen when her cell buzzes loudly on the computer bench. It's an alert for another e-mail but this time on her private account. The name of the sender gives her a genuine jolt of excitement and it has nothing to do with a quarter of Caf-Pow! gone from its cup.

 _ **'Hi Abby**_ ,' she reads, _**'w**_ _ **hat's up, girl? We haven't heard from you recently. All ok? You haven't drowned in some chemical solution, have you?**_

 _ **Just kidding. Chrissy would have had my head for making jokes like that.**_

 _ **I'm e-mailing you between things that are about to be done and other things that were supposed to be done yesterday so I'll be brief – could you be my angel again and lend me your ear? The two files attached below are two different versions of the same song. I've written it as a surprise for Chrissy so it's more about the 'personal feels' than its selling potential (maybe I will publish it but not sure yet).**_

 _ **Let me know which one you think is better,**_

 _ **John L.'**_

She jumps at the prospect. It's not the first time her musician friend trusts her with his unpublished piece, asking for a second opinion, and she had never refused, even though John's genre isn't exactly her cup of tea. A favor for a friend is a favor for a friend – and besides, there is just something about his compositions that even she, a fan of heavier beats, simply cannot resist.

And having nothing better to do yet, she jumps right to it.

She doesn't bother listening to the files on her phone. The tiny speaker wouldn't do John's music justice. She pulls the laptop out of her backpack onto her computer bench, turns it on and plugs in to the lab's sophisticated network. After running a scan for any potentially dangerous content, she starts downloading both files, meanwhile familiarizing herself with the text that John had added in the third attachment.

' _ **What would I do without your smart mouth?**_

 _ **Drawing me in and kicking me out**_

 _ **You got my head spinning, no kidding**_

 _ **I can't pin you down**_

 _ **What's going on in that beautiful mind?**_

 _ **I'm on your magical mystery ride**_

 _ **And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me**_

 _ **But I'll be all right.'**_

"Huh. Cute," she announces her initial verdict to no one in particular and carries on reading and memorizing the rest. The lyrics _are_ cute, though not overly. "Let's see what awesomeness you have conceived this time, Johnny boy!"

She hits 'play' and soft but rhythmic sounds of a piano start playing from the lab's speakers. After just the first four measures, an electronic drum joins in, almost immediately followed by a bass guitar, setting the mellow but distinct R&B style. When John's voice finally comes in, her head is already bobbing lightly up and down to the rhythm. She closes her eyes, letting the rich theme of the song and John's playful voice to fill her head.

Even before the track is over, she knows it's good. The lyrics are cute but also deep enough to shake off the 'cheesy' label, the melody is easy enough that she has half-memorized it by now, the blues beat makes the music theme so catchy she finds herself humming along, and John's shifts between melisma and smooth jazzy grooving is simply flawless. The song is so damn irresistible that she cannot help but like it. It's good, really good.

And if this one is this good, she already imagines just how good the second one would need to be in order to beat it.

"Please, let it _not_ be pop," she mutters and bracing herself just in case, she slides the cursor of the mouse over the icon 'next' and clicks.

But no cheese plays from the speakers. Like in the first version, the sounds of the piano float through the silence of the lab but this time round, no drums or bass guitar join the theme. The piano plays solo the entire intro and it sounds clearer, more pronounced, with a slight echo to it that tells her that this is probably a grand piano rather than a modern electronic piano from the first version. The theme is the same but there is no swing to it; the rhythm of the intro is regular, its melody firm but delicate, built from only three tones at a time. It's simple and solemn, and nowhere near enough to make her body move to the rhythm, even in the slightest. Quite the contrary - it freezes her to the spot.

She can't help but to feel intrigued.

And then, John finally comes in and it's not only her body that stills but her lungs, too.

Those lyrics...

The same lyrics that previously looked just cute on paper and were just an integral part of the playful R&B, now delivered differently, with the grand piano being the sole supported, are now a focal point of the song. As a matter of fact, _each_ word of the long verse is focal; each sinks in deep inside her and resonates strongly within her, making her heart clench and unclench in a painful dance.

' _ **Cause all of me loves all of you. Love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections,'**_ John sings out soulfully the chorus of his power ballad and she finally remembers that she _does_ need to breathe. **'** _ **Give your all to me! I'll give my all to you. You're my end and my beginning, even when I lose I'm winning."**_

The meaning of the chorus hits her full on and it is then, something inside her, something deep, _deep_ inside her just snaps.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	5. Chapter 5

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **Author's Note:**

Hello everyone! Thanks for your comments and messages. Each one makes my heart skip a bit – I am so glad to hear feedback from those who stumbled upon this story and found a moment to write a few words!

To Theresa – I am ever so grateful for you, patiently lending me your ear and giving me sound advice. Hugs!

To those I can't reach via PM:

Dear Guest – you ask for Ziva/Tiva. Please forgive me for not having her yet in the story. Right now (I'm following the canon) she is on winter holiday with her 'Miami guy' and I just didn't dare bothering her there. You know what happens to those who piss Ziva off, right? ;-) She will be back when she will be back – and she will have something to say in this story.

Another Guest – constructive criticism is more than welcomed. Hatred and a really bad language are not. It's as simple as that.

To everyone who clicked on chapter 5– I hope you'll enjoy it.

 **Chapter 5**

.

As he opens the fire escape door that separate the staircase from the corridor, he is still very much in his thoughts and his legs carry him around the corner without his consciousness involved much in the process of moving his body forward. But as he carries on along the corridor, like he has done hundreds of times before, his instincts kick in, making that consciousness of his stand to attention. Something is off. His purposeful strides slow down to a soft stop and he makes a rapid mental check of the surroundings. It reveals nothing out order, however. The lights are dim, in the 'after hours' mode, as they should be on Saturday night, no suspicious objects in sight, no tells of any hidden activity around the far corner, no alerting smells detected in the air, and aside from the music that plays from inside of the lab, there are no other sounds, not even the hum of the elevator. What was it then? Or is it his gut instinct getting all messed up? 'Cause music is playing so Abby must be in the lab. If she was not in there, she'd have turned the music off. The only other time she'd have done that would be if something was wrong. If there was something wrong she wouldn't be listening to some relaxing ballad, just like that. She would have stopped the soundtrack, or at least there would have been more commotion and…

Abby doesn't listen to relaxing ballads.

The thought has barely finished forming in his consciousness when his body springs into action again. It coils, giving his movements a cat-like litheness, thanks to which he quickly but soundlessly covers the remaining distance to the lab's door.

But there is no sign of danger inside either. As he peeks in, everything looks perfectly safe, perfectly normal, including Abby, who is simply standing, in her usual spot in front of her computer bench. There is also nothing abnormal in the fact that she is singing. The feminine voice, which he heard from around the corner and took for a part of a male/female duet, is in fact Abby's own voice, singing along with the guy form the recording. But that's not _it_ – it's not the first time he's heard her. Abby likes singing and over the years, he had heard her enough times to know that she has a rather good voice.

But what he also knows are her preferences. Over the years, he has never once heard of her being fond of any ballads, not to mention _singing_ any. And now she _is_ singing one and it's a _love_ ballad at that.

That's exactly it.

Abby, singing a love song is a concept so foreign to him that he needs a few seconds just to digest it. Those few seconds, when he just stands in the lab's threshold, blinking, are enough to wrap his head around it and shake off the initial shock – and enough to fall under the spell at the same time.

It isn't Abby's usual way of singing. Normally, when she sings, she either hurries through it, like when some song is something that had inspired her discovery in their investigation, or she absentmindedly hums or rasps out this or other verse of whatever stuff she's listening to. Now, however, she is singing in full, well pronounced lines, either hitting the same notes as the singer or splitting from him towards some higher notes, one moment singing in perfect sync with the guy and in the next, stretching some of the words over his part. Their voices, his soothing, hers dark and sensuous, split and merge, split and merge, over and over, in almost hypnotic harmony – and all he can do is to just stand and listen, utterly bewitched.

And then, the music changes significantly and even he, with his layman's knowledge of music's theory, knows that this must the bridge of the song. Not that it matters. What matters more is how they sing it… how _she_ sings it, how much of herself she puts in it,

 _ **'Cards on the table, we're both showing hearts,**_

 _ **Risking it all though it's hard…'**_

The emotional demand ends strongly, with the male singer's last note still trembling in the silence of the lab. And then, after a bit, the guy starts over, this time gentler.

' _ **Cause all of me loves all of you,'**_ he sings and Abby's voice somehow hesitantly joins in with him on the last couple of words. _ **'Love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections.'**_

She carries on singing, something about 'giving all' and her voice, delicate and soft, stands in such stark contrast with how she sounded just a moment ago, with how she _normally_ sounds when she talks, that he would have trouble recognizing this voice as hers. Her natural timbre, low and husky, is so soft and tremulous now, sounds so fragile and hollow, as if she was…

With an almost violent smack of Abby's hand on the keyboard, the music is cut abruptly. He watches, a bit startled, as Abby's hands fly up towards her face. In the utter silence that fell after the music stopped, nothing covers the sounds of her breath hitching once, twice, nothing muffs the sharp sob that echoes in the lab.

Now he _knows_ something must be wrong. Really, really wrong – Abby doesn't cry often.

A name, whispered shakily through the repressed sobs, stops him right as he takes the first step towards her. "Oh, Johnny boy," she repeats and he listens, frowning, "why can't he love me the way you love your Chrissy? Why am I not enough?"

It's weird how the world sometimes seems to pause for a moment, for the most trivial of reasons. Or maybe it is just his brain. And maybe these reasons are not as trivial as they appear at first.

And then everything moves again and his thoughts begin their gallop in his head, one faster than another.

Abby is…

Johnny boy…?

Abby is _in love?_

Since when?

Who is Chrissy?

Abby, _not enough_?

He… who?

He wants to know. He always wants to know, especially when it comes to Abby. Everything in him wants to go and hold her, and be there and help her…

…why then are his legs not listening, not carrying him towards her already? That's his…

When he finally moves into the lab, it's too late. Abby, not even noticing his presence, practically flies through the open door to her office and dashes across the unlit space. By the time the door slides behind her, she is already running into the ballistic room at the far end– and by the time he reaches the office, she has already shut the door behind her. He follows – and stops. The door is not sliding open as it's supposed to. He moves a bit – sometimes the sensor above the door glitches momentarily. But there is no bleep indicating that his movement had been detected, the sensor's tiny light is red instead of the blinking green.

The lock is engaged.

He doesn't bother asking himself how and when. Abby has her ways around the lab.

But it doesn't matter.

There's no point knocking on the door; in the soundproof ballistic lab she won't hear it anyway.

Instinctively, he grabs his cell phone. But as he dials Abby's number, a startling owl hooting explodes to his right. A couple more and as he recognizes the tune, he also guesses what it means; Abby forgot her phone behind. The tune is 'his', one assigned to his name only and unchanged, unlike the others, for years now. And he is right - her cell phone sits by her open laptop, its lit screen flashing his own name at him. He hungs up. For a moment, he entertains the idea of calling her office but gives up – the ring isn't loud enough to reach the ballistic lab. And the ballistic lab doesn't have its own phone line.

He would have to just wait for her then.

But the longer he stands there, the more he feels that this is not the right option either. Something inside him says 'leave!' – but just why does leaving the lab feel like the right thing to do whilst he wants to stay so much – he doesn't feel like examining right now. Maybe it's his gut, telling him this.

Maybe.

Most likely.

Yes, it must be it.

And he is not one to ignore his 'gut feeling'.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	6. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (unfortunately!) They all belong to CBS.**

 **I just mess with them, for fun only.**

 **Author's Note:**

Forgive me for any mistakes – English is not my first language. I'm always open to any corrections thrown at me though ;-)

 **Chapter 6**

It's not often that she needs silence to calm the nerves. Usually, loud music does the job for her. But not this time.

And the ballistic lab is not only quiet. With its soundproof door shut, the silence is absolute and almost deafening. The only sounds in here are those inside her. The ones that dominate are her sobs – sobs that don't allow her to breathe in enough air.

It needs fixing.

Determined, she takes a breath deep enough to make her lungs hurt. Then, she releases it as slowly as she can, counting down from ten.

It's good to focus on numbers. They are so reliable, so solid. She imagines each one ticking in her head like an analogue wall clock and each of these ticks centers her, settles her, restores her control over her breathing.

She needs three dozen before her breathing stops hitching. At the fifth dozen, her heart is almost in sync with the carefully measured ticks of her countdown.

Five dozen ticks. Five breaths. Fifty seconds.

Not bad.

Now the sounds are these outside of her body. She can hear the rustle of her flannel shirt against the wall, the swish of her stiff black khaki pants, every squeak of her military boots against the linoleum floor of the lab.

"Fine," she says to the space under the table in front of her.

With a resolve, she lifts herself of the floor and marches through her office, her hand blindly punching a button on the remote control on her desk as she passes by it. The door, following the familiar pulsating beep, slides open with a hiss.

A quick face wash in the sink and she feels almost normal. Almost. Almost there.

Focus on something. She needs to focus.

Her legs instinctively carry her over to the computer bench, where both her work PC and her own laptop blink at her, both with a different winter theme. The PC is the sensible option.

With a small tap on the keyboard, the gently floating sparkly snowflakes disappear from the screen of the laptop. The music player, with the last soundtrack still on 'pause', stares at her challengingly.

"Oh, get a grip, Sciuto," she commands herself harshly and grabs the mouse, eyeing the cursor's movement on the screen as it heads upwards for the 'close' button.

How the cursor ends up at the bottom of the program, on 'play', she can't tell.

John's voice fills the silence of the lab again, continuing from the very moment she interrupted the song and she listens, eyes closed, jaws clenched, biting her lip to stop herself from singing along. It helps but only that much; the lyrics ring in her head anyway. Small wonder. John simply put into words what she feels too, what she's been feeling for years. The difference between them is that he can say those words out in the open. He is in love – and is being loved back. Unlike her.

But breathing through it helps and she manages to last till the very last note without breaking down again. Then, she finally closes the program.

And from underneath it, her still open e-mail account appears.

"Okay," she nods decisively. "Music reviewer mode on!"

It takes her a moment to gather her thoughts and compose the reply for John. Once that's done, the process of writing it down is just a matter of letting her fingers doing their job.

" _ **Hey there, Johnny boy,**_

 _ **No, I haven't drowned. No a chance. Chemical solutions are my element and I can swim in them easier than in water. But thank you for asking. Been busy at work and with other stuff, that's all.**_

 _ **Now, about**_ _ **your**_ _ **stuff. I have to say – I thought the piece you sent me a couple months back was good. This one though…**_

 _ **I won't tell you which version is better. I can't – simply because both are great. I mean it. Each in a different style but both are – music wise – just flawless.**_

 _ **What I can tell you is what each one did to me.**_

 _ **1**_ _ **st**_ _ **– spoke to my ears and moved my body. Can't pin it down. Must have been all of it.**_

 _ **2**_ _ **nd**_ _ **– went straight to my heart. No kidding. Don't know what hit me but I'll be alright.**_

 _ **You decide.**_

 _ **Or, better yet, since it's meant to be as a present for Chrissy, why don't you simply let her listen to both? Honestly? If someone wrote a song for me – and not just one but two versions of it – I would have been over the moon. Or, more like, over the moons, Moons of Jupiter, to be specific, which are many and some astonishingly beautiful – but that's beside the point. You get the picture though, right?**_

 _ **With a heartfelt apology for giving you probably the crappiest feedback ever,**_

 _ **Abby'**_

A quick read through allows her to check for any misspellings. And then a simple 'send' – and it's done. With a long huff, she reaches for her Caf-Pow! and sucks the drink in as if her life depended on it. _"C'mon, work, work, work, work,"_ she chants in her mind.

When the cup is empty, she sets it aside and puts her hands on the keyboard of the laptop again, ready to close everything. But before she can do that, a thin ping announces the arrival of another e-mail.

"Okay," she raises her eyebrow at John's name highlighted again at the very top of the inbox.

' _ **Wow, Abby, talking of speed! I didn't expect a reply from you till at least tomorrow. What are you doing reading e-mails on Saturday night?**_

 _ **As for your comment on your supposedly 'crappy' feedback – I will pretend I didn't read that. Your feedback always counts – and in this case, you are just spot on. There I was, thinking 'which one?' and here comes Abby, saying 'sing both!'. Guess what – that's exactly what I'm going to do. Why didn't I think of that before?**_

 _ **J.'**_

Despite her unusually gloomy mood, she smiles. Maybe it is because it's better to focus on somebody else, or maybe it's the Caf-Pow! beginning to work its magic but when she presses 'reply', her fingers are no longer trembling.

' _ **Don't make me say it… Nevermind, I will say it anyway.**_

 _ **Men…**_

 _ **There. I said it.**_

 _ **You, men (the creatures from Mars), need a different perspective sometimes and that's why, you need us, women (the species of Venus), to give you the advice.**_

 _ **(And vice versa so don't take offence.)**_

 _ **As for me reading e-mails – I'm on call and carved out a few free minutes to myself. What's your excuse?'**_

This time, the reply arrives within just moments from her message being sent.

' _ **In studio, taking 5. Just about to get back in.'**_

She types in in a hurry, wanting the message to reach John in time.

' _ **Have a blast!'**_

' _ **Thanks. Talk soon.'**_

With John's last message, she knows the conversation is over. Once they rolling, all devices have to be turned off. Otherwise, there might be interference in the recording…

Her last word snaps open something in her mind. Or maybe it is Caf-Pow! working in full. Nevertheless, she has to hurry.

Mentally kicking herself for being careless, she rotates the monitor of her PC away from the security camera and begins the work no one should ever catch her do. The lab maybe offers a silent solitude but it isn't as private as it seems. And she had played John's unpublished song, right there, in front of the security cameras – how thoughtless of her! If this recording leaks out…

She is lucky though. McGee had shown her how to check if the security feed was re-played by anyone and it looks like this one hasn't, yet. Everything was viewed live and probably – hopefully – overlooked as just yet another song that plays in the labs when she is in.

A little calmer, she logs onto the server, searching for the right feed. Once she has found it - and the right time slot – she knows that deleting the whole section isn't an option. Both songs took almost five minutes and that's way too long to pass for a momentary glitch. There are other ways though. Leaving the visuals alone, she messes around with the sound only, replacing the music with an equally long fragment of the lab's natural ambience. At least this way, if anyone checks, all they will see is her back as she is busy at her work station, and satisfied that there is nothing suspicious taking place, will just move on to inspect another section of the building.

She is done editing and just covering her tracks on the server when she can hear the lift arriving on her floor. The first thing to appear in the doorway is a large plastic box and only then, the rest of the person who carries it.

"Hey," she greets before the young agent can and reaches for her disposable gloves, "Where's Balboa?"

"Busy on the phone. Metro was there before us and already took the body."

"Oh, no," it's not the first time the interests of NCIS and Metropolitan Police clash and she can already see what might be happening right now. "Ducky must be raging, right?"

"You can say that again! Although, he is peanuts in comparison with what Agent Gibbs is doing."

Her hands, gloved and eager to grab the evidence log, halt in the air. "What do you mean by 'what Agent Gibbs is doing'?" she asks and makes herself move forward as naturally as she can. "He's probably busy doing whatever he's doing when he's off duty," she comments indifferently as she signs. "None of our business."

"Well, if calling Metro and ripping apart the person who denies our requests is being 'off duty' to him… That guy should loosen up a bit. We can manage."

"Hey!" whilst a part of her brain is asking itself some rather searching questions, another part of it simply switches the protective mode on. "He is the _Lead Agent_ here and if he showed up on his weekend off, it means there was a valid reason. You should be glad that he has your back."

"More like he is _at_ my back. And 24/7, mind you! Not even Vance does that and he is the _actual_ Director here."

 _Oh, ye of little awareness,_ she resists the urge to roll her eyes at the young agent's naiveté. Leon checks everything just as meticulously as Gibbs – just not in person. He has his eyes on everything – through the ever present security cameras. But Probationary Agent Richard Greene doesn't have to know that. Not yet. Or maybe not ever. "What did you bring for me?" she asks instead.

"For you?"

"The evidence?" she reminds.

"Oh, that! Well, it's mostly the stuff we found on the ground. You will have clothes and the other samples once Mallard gets here with the body."

 _Mallard?_

She isn't any fear inspiring interrogator but most people get _at least_ a little uncomfortable when subjected to her glare. But Green Ricky, though very good at collecting the evidence for Balboa, is one of those people who seem to be completely oblivious to other people's body language and her angry glare is met with just a blank look.

"Actually, _Ricky_ ," she drawls his name coolly, "It's _Doctor_ Mallard to you."

"Why? Nobody calls him that!"

"Jimmy Palmer, his assistant, calls him that. Half of this building calls him that. Director Vance calls him that. And if the Director respects the title, you should, too," she explains as concisely as she thinks he might need. _Especially that Ducky has more PhDs than you seem to have brain cells._

"Right, fine. No need to be so defensive."

 _Oh, how little you know…_

But she doesn't bother explaining anymore. Waste of time to spell it all out to someone who doesn't get it anyway. There are other ways to make sure he will learn his lesson. He will either learn – or quit. It will happen – sometime in the future. Right now, however, in the present, all she is concerned about is her work. All she wants now is to be left alone so she can get on with it.

When it finally happens, she sinks her hands in the box. The plastic evidence bags rustle under her fingers and it's a feeling so familiar, so soothing that she feels better already.

Almost.

As she inspects the first transparent bag, she focuses on the content – a bunch of wet, old looking leaves with dark brown stains on them. When she opens the red seal of the bag, a foul smell of rot tinged with spicy copper hits her nostrils. _Ugh,_ she winces. Nasty rot and fresh blood. _Oh, yeah, Major MassSpec will have a field day._

A few more bags later and she knows that the handmade nose clips are a must. Or, maybe not? The stench fills the air and is strong enough to effectively distract her from her daydreams about certain fragrances, daydreams that once start, are difficult to shake off. And it's for the best, to keep them at bay. It's bad enough that the dreams about sawdust come back to her at night, in her sleep, when she has no control over them but now she has to focus…

...except…

…she can _still_ smell it.

She steps away from the evidence and rolling her eyes at herself, sniffs deeply – just to rule out the possibility as ridiculous and simply imagined.

The eyeroll morphs into a small frown, she sniffs again and then she knows she is missing something, something she should have noticed earlier.

Daydream is one thing – but there _is_ an actual trace of sawdust lingering in the air.

But that's not possible, she tells herself, it wouldn't linger here since last night. And when she came in today, the air in the lab was pure, smelling only of antiseptic the floor had been mopped with…

Impossible unless...

The unexplained little panic at the back of her mind returns full force, making her abandon the evidence on the bench and fly towards her computer. With a few frantically typed commands, she is back on the server, going over the same section of the security feed she had altered merely ten minutes ago. But this time, instead of focusing on the sound, she watches the visuals, all the way till she can see herself running away to her inner office. For a few seconds nothing else happens – and then, there's a movement; the back of someone's head appears in the bottom left corner of the feed and moves on to the right, towards the office door.

She moans; _this_ head, she would have recognized everywhere.

"Out of all people, it just had to be _you…_ " she whispers.

How much did he see and hear though?

Going back to the beginning of her altered section, she checks the time stamp and goes on searching for yet another feed, one from a different device. And sure enough, there he is, appearing in view of the camera in the corridor, walking towards the lab, then stopping momentarily and then walking again, faster this time, almost running and ultimately stopping in the threshold. Syncing both feeds and running them together tells her everything she needs to know and all that she was afraid to see – she had have a witness throughout almost the _entire_ song.

"Well, you always did have an awful good timing," she mutters, resigned. "It's mine that sucks."

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	7. Chapter 7

**DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters (one could only wish!) They all belong to CBS. I just mess with them - for pleasure, mostly.**

 **AN:**

Forgive me for any mistakes – English is not my first language. I'm always open to any corrections thrown in my direction ;-)

 **Chapter 7**

 **.**

Usually, even busy with something, Abby is still somehow aware of people entering her lab and it's been like this for years now. Only he, Gibbs, had always been able to easily sneak up on her. _Had been._ Ever since L.A., that 'radar' of hers has been on such high alert that approaching her unawares began requiring an actual effort put into it. Not this time round though. As he is standing at the door to the lab, for the second time this evening and this time not masking his presence in any way, there is no reaction from Abby, no tell-tale signs that she has noticed his arrival. She is working on something and whatever it is, it has her undivided attention.

Any other day and he wouldn't have resisted the opportunity. But not today.

"Abby," he calls quietly as he walks in. Even at its softest, however, his voice can startle, so it seems. And though the way she's jumped would have amused him on any average working day – now, it's more of a cause for concern. "What's up?"

"My blood pressure, that's what's up. And it's your fault," her voice is trembling slightly indeed but not as bad as to stop her from talking. And by the time he is by her side, she's recovered and is back to work on whatever he interrupted. On the screen, some programs blink away before he can even have a glance, some other, familiar, appear. "And problems with my hearing – that's another thing that's up, apparently. Why didn't I hear the elevator?"

"Good question, Abs," he plays along patiently. "You okay?"

As Abby looks up at him, her face shows no sadness that he half expected to see. Quite the contrary – her green eyes surely meet his. "Gibbs, it was just a little scare," she scoffs half-heartedly, "I'm not going into any heart attack, don't worry."

That's not what he meant. "It's not that, Abs. You said something before I came in," he admits simply. Fan of hinting games, he is not - not when it comes to series matters. "About something that 'sucks'. What's up with that?"

"You heard? Well, of course you did… you always hear everything. Nah, it's nothing," Abby brushes it off lightly and walks away to the evidence bench. "I simply didn't turn something on at the right time and I was a little mad at myself for that. But it's all fixed now and ready," she explains and he just knows she is telling the truth. He would have known if she was making it up; a convincing liar, she is not. So, he decides, at least the bit he has overheard moments ago was lab related. And all things that have something to do with the lab can be left well alone in Abby's capable hands.

"Okay," he acknowledges. Nothing to worry about here. The other thing, however… "And… in general?"

 _That_ earns him a long, questioning look from above the bags of evidence which she's begun opening. "Maybe I should be the one asking if _you_ are okay," as she speaks, her voice rings of genuine concern. "Who are you and what have you done with Gibbs who doesn't do small talk?"

"Not a small talk, Abs," he protests. It isn't easy for him to initiate the talk about any emotional issues but upstairs, in the bullpen, he had resolved himself to do it anyway. This is Abby – and for her, he would do anything. "I was here earlier," he makes himself say it. "Saw you cryin'. What's wrong, Abs?"

Abby stills – but just a mere moment later, her attention is back on the evidence. "And can we leave it like that?" he hears her voice, a bit muffled. Maybe it's because she is bent over the evidence bench. Maybe. "That you saw me – and that's it, fine, move on and forget that it happened? No need to worry, Gibbs. It's nothing that's gonna affect my work..."

"Abs," he interrupts gently and even that is enough to quiet her. "I know it won't." He'd seen her working under much greater strain and emotional stress many times in the past and work had never suffered from it. No, it wasn't work that was affected. "Not work I'm worried about."

"I know," she is not even looking at him as she is beginning to prepare the solutions she will need for the samples, "But really, you don't have to. I'm fine."

'Fine' was not what he expected to hear. Not from Abby, who only says 'fine' when she really _is_ fine – and not just because that is what is socially expected. "Didn't sound 'fine' to me half an hour ago, Abs," he pushes.

"I had… a moment, okay? I'm fine now," she sounds honest but can she be really fine after what he had witnessed half an hour ago? So calm so soon after the storm?

Too long he has been wearing his own masks to miss one on somebody else. The thing is – Abby shouldn't wear any masks.

He stands there, just waiting her out, which always works. If bothered by something, Abby just comes to him and all he has to do is listen, often without even saying a word – and help her in whichever way he can. And when she is more reluctant to talk, all that's required on his part is a patient waiting and a bit of semi-insistent staring, his way of letting her know that he is there for her. It always works. Her reluctance rarely lasts a minute.

But today is not the usual; he knows it after a full minute and then, another, and yet another, passes with Abby working in silence, without as much as a glance in his direction. And he feels a bit out of his depth. Abby that doesn't want to talk to him is _not_ what he is used to. Only once before she had clammed up on him in a similar way; two months back when they were investigating the murder of Lieutenant Thorson and he refused to believe in Abby's theory. That was work related though. But privately – never. Privately, Abby shares _everything_ with him, willingly. _That_ is what he is used to. And the fact that Abby doesn't want to share with him, as he is beginning to realize, kind of stings a bit. No. Actually, it stings quite a lot.

"Abs," he calls out finally, "Why are you shutting me out?"

Abby is surprised – surprised enough to stop what she is doing and look up from above the row of lidded test tubes she has just fixed in the holder. "What? I'm… I'm not," she stammers a bit. "Just busy."

 _Never stopped her before,_ he thinks to himself. Abby's skill of multitasking isn't famous without a reason. He knows it first hand; they have had many private conversations over the evidence being processed. Abby's mind just compartmentalizes like that. She can – if she wants to.

Her choice right now is more than clear.

He tilts his head, studying her more intently and he knows that she can feel his gaze on her. Her hands work as steadily as ever but the rest of her body is a different story altogether. The alternating stiffening and squirming is momentary and slight but he is used to detecting even tinier shifts in other people's body language. He will have to just wait for the right moment…

"Look," Abby straightens up from above the evidence bench so quickly that it surprises him that he didn't see it coming, "This isn't something you can fix in your Gibbs 'hit-and-run' style, okay?"

Her words produce a feeling of déjà vu in him; they've been in this situation before, years back. Back then she also had a 'guy problem', and he listened, clenching his jaws at the thought of some man who had stolen and then broken her heart. But it didn't matter how hard it was for him to hear about yet another guy in her life – it was about Abby and helping her deal. Today isn't any different; it's still about her.

And just like back then, he uses the same words, with a hope that they will work again, "I got time, Abs."

"No, you don't," Abby snaps at him. "You should be out of here already, actually."

Now this _really_ is something he didn't see coming.

"Am I _persona non grata_ here or somethin'?"

He regrets his own snappy tone the second he's finished the sentence. Something flashes across Abby's face but it's gone even faster than it appeared.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gibbs," her words are maybe harsh but the tone is warm as she shakes her head at his words. "You are _always_ welcome in my Labby. But you shouldn't be here _today._ You should be already out of D.C. and well on your way to Stillwater. Don't you tell me that you changed you mind about your Christmas plans with your dad!"

"No, I didn't," he replies patiently. "But like I said, I got time to get there."

"And like _I_ said, no, you don't," Abby corrects him firmly. "In case you didn't bother checking the weather forecast, here is a newsflash: there's a crazy blizzard heading northeast and it's expected to hit D.C within like, an hour or so. If it hits us like they say it might, we can expect about fifteen inches of snow within the first four hours of it! Fifteen in four hours, Gibbs! You should be already out of here or you will never make it there in time."

As she looks away to get on with her tasks, he clenches his jaws slightly. Trust Abby to shut his mouth up with the facts he can't deny! His original plans of leaving D.C on Sunday evening had to be very quickly revised after the Winter Storm Warning had hit the afternoon news and indeed, he was left with the choice of leaving much earlier than he had intended or not leaving at all. Balboa's phone call came when he was just about done with his speedy packing up. With his bags in his pickup, he is ready to set off even from here and at any time – but Abby is right; that time is running out. Any more delay, one more hour – maybe even less – and he might miss the narrow time window and get himself stuck somewhere, before he even reaches the border of Pennsylvania.

Then again, maybe he _should_ stay.

"Maybe it's a sign not to go."

"Oh no, you don't!" Abby straightens up again, pointing at him with an emptied dropper. "Firstly, you don't believe in signs. Secondly – you, the Daredevil Gibbs, quitting before you even try? Please. You're more of a type who would head-slap a grizzly bear to give you a piggyback ride all the way to your destination, for as long as you are determined to reach it. And I know you are."

He didn't mean the weather but he isn't going to clarify that. And yeah, he was determined to reach Stillwater, no matter how, even on his skis – up to about half an hour ago. "No grizzlies in Maryland, Abs," he can't stop himself. "Just _Black_ Bears."

The only reaction his correction earns him is Abby's eyes narrowing at him. "And thirdly," she moves pass his attempt to distract her, her dropper still pointed at him like a mini-épée, "you are _not_ one who breaks promises – and you _did_ promise Jack! He is very excited that you're coming. You can't disappoint your dad, Gibbs! And yourself, as well! If you miss out, you'll regret it, I know you will. Deny all you want but I know you've been looking forward to this visit, too."

Of course she knows. He hasn't said a word about it, and yet, she knows.

"Jack's _excited_?" he also knows how to move pass things that he doesn't want to discuss. "And you know this how, Abby?"

Abby's face all of a sudden loses its calm; she looks guilty, like every time she realizes that she has said too much. "Do I get to plead the fifth?"

"Nope."

"Okay. You have no time for long interrogations anyway," Abby agrees quickly. "He might have mentioned something in an e-mail."

"E-mail."

"Yes, Gibbs, an e-mail. That thing that you open only when your computer yells at you. Gibbs Senior uses it too – but unlike you, he _loves_ it."

"U-huh," he acknowledges. It's not a secret that his father and Abby have each other's phone numbers, for emergencies. But just when and how did 'just in case' turn into the 'gang up on' case he has no idea and it bugs him, like everything that has managed to pass right under his nose undetected. And he doesn't like being ganged up on, no. "And just what you and _Gibbs Senior_ talk about, Abs?"

"That is private and _not_ important," Abby brings the subject to an end. "What _is_ important is you, getting out of here, _lo antes possible(1)_ and getting yourself safely to where your dad is waiting for you. He hasn't seen you since September and he misses very much, Gibbs! So, let me say the infamous line for once," she smiles sweetly at him, "Grab your gear!"

That also can't be left without a comment. "Stealing my lines now, Abs?"

"Sue me for copyrights infringement," Abby smiles wider. "Now, off with you!"

"Alright, alright, since you're kicking me out," he raises his hands to show that she's won. "Last question."

"Shoot."

"Who is the guy who hurt you?"

She takes it in her stride, he has to give it to her. No sudden intake of breath, no sudden gestures – the only thing that is sudden about her is the smile that is, within a blink of an eye, gone from her face.

"What part of 'I don't wanna talk about it' did you not get?" her voice too, is bereft of its teasing tone and she turns away to the bench, replacing the dropper back on the steel tray. "If it was the ' _don't_ ', let me say it again…"

"Abs," he interrupts her delicately, "Talking always helps you."

"Not always. Not about everything," Abby's declaration is so matter-of-fact that it leaves him suddenly pondering about those other 'not always' times he had missed. "And this is one of those things that talking won't fix. Actually, it's one of those things that nothing will fix so why would you wanna know his name?"

"To know whose ass to kick for breaking your heart."

His words, honest and raw, finally bring some reaction. The mask of that reinforced calm cracks and falls, and Abby's face is as he knows it – expressive, almost naked in its openness. Shock, exasperation, frustration, vulnerability, resignation, that warm affection she always has for him – show on her face, one turning into another swiftly, like a summer lightning bolt. Finally, her shoulders lose some of that stiffness that was there from the moment he had greeted her from the door – and he hopes that he finally has her, that she is back to being Abby who doesn't hold back from him.

"You always have to say the sweetest things, don't you, Gibbs?"

He voice is so hollow, so resigned, just like it did before she had broken into tears earlier that he feels the urge to simply take her in his arms and just hold her there. _Not yet,_ he commands himself. She has to get it out of her system first. "Can't help it. It's my curse," he comments dryly.

A smile appears on Abby's face; small, a little wistful – but definitely more genuine than the overly bright, seemingly cheerful one she put on to convince him that she was okay. "As sweet as your offer is, I won't take you upon it, Gibbs. I won't tell you who it is," she squares her shoulders again and he almost rolls his eyes at her stubbornness. "You can't kick y… you know… you can't go into your kickass mode just because a guy I'm into is not into me."

" _He_ told you that?" he asks as patiently as he can muster.

" _He_ didn't have to say anything. I just know."

"You sure?"

"Gibbs, c'mon! Years of experience as an interrogator and you're asking me what non-verbal communication is? When a woman is into you, you can tell, right?" when he simply nods, she carries on, "Well, newsflash – I can, too. And I know that he just doesn't see me in this way. I'm just not enough."

"Abby, stop!" he interrupts her firmly. It takes only a few steps to be by her side and his right hand seems to find its place on her shoulder almost without his conscious decision. "Never say you are not enough, hear me?"

"But it's true!" he more feels rather than sees her light shrug, "To him, I'm simply not enough a woman. He sees me as a friend, yeah – but nothing more than that. And I need to find a way to be okay with it."

"Abs…" the pain in her voice breaks his heart and feels like smashing something to pieces. He just can't comprehend how any man in his right mind could look at Abby and not see a woman in her. He himself can, always could – it's just he had to remind himself over and over for those past years that he could never reach for her, that he never should. "If that guy can't see you for what you are, he must be idiot and doesn't deserve you."

Everything in her looks like she is ready for a hug, for that ultimate comfort she seeks from him from time to time. But today is not the usual. She doesn't reach out to him. It is him, as he senses the shift in that readiness; that second when she looks like she's changed her mind after all and wants to turn away, who pulls her closer and encloses her in his embrace. Abby isn't herself, he can feel it. The way she returns the hug is not the way she usually does; her arms, instead of being wrapped tightly around his neck, are barely there around his waist, her face is hidden low on his chest and she trembles, ever so lightly – but he can feel it still, despite all the layers of their clothing.

"It's not about deserving, Gibbs," he both hears and feels her mumbling against his chest. "It's just about being right for each other. And with you... I mean you, _men_ , being visuals, either the attraction is there, right from the start, or won't be there at all. Simple as that."

 _Oh, other senses play their roles too,_ he disagrees internally, instinctively pulling her even closer. "Like I said," he murmurs slowly somewhere above her ear. "Guy must be an idiot and in addition to that, blind."

The sound Abby makes splits the difference between a sigh and a sad chuckle – and then, she pulls away a bit and looks up at him. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

For a moment, confusion robs him of his voice. "You're asking _me_ that?"

"Well, yeah! In the last few minutes you told me more nice things than you did in the last few years! Are you okay?"

"Abs," he can't help but shake his head lightly, "And what about the 'good job' almost every day? Doesn't qualify as nice?"

"'Good job' is about work well done. This, now, is _not_ about work," she pauses and her face falls again. "You said it all just to make me feel better, didn't you?"

Once more, he shakes his head. "I ever said anything I don't mean?" he questions and after her quiet 'no.', he pulls her in again.

They stand there for a bit; she, with her head resting on his chest and he, with his lips on her brow, trying like hell not to think about just how much he would like to lower his head just that little more and show her just how much she is loved and desired. That is something he had never allowed himself to do and never should. This could have damaged that special trust Abby has in him – and that trust is something he values way too much to lose over a man's need. And to show that need now, of all times, now that she is pining after another man - could damage _e_ _verything_ between them.

So he just holds her.

Finally though, Abby pulls away again, this time for good, and he lets her. "Now that you've dragged everything out of me, can you finally be off on your merry way so you can say 'Merry Christmas' to your dad on actual Christmas?"

Oh, he did not find out _everything_ but all in its own time. And his way might not be as merry as she wishes him – for the last few minutes in here, he's been feeling less and less like going and more and more like staying.

"I could still tell him that on the phone."

"Oh. No. You. Don't!" Judging just by her suddenly fiery tone, Abby clearly doesn't agree with his idea. "You are going to your dad and you will get there, even if I had to drag you to your pick-up, chain you up in your trunk and personally drive you all the way to Stillwater!"

 _Fine by me,_ it crosses his mind. Without a word, he retrieves his car keys from his hoodie and dangles them right in front of Abby's angry face. And her anger disappears, replaced by a smile of amusement at his silent challenge – amusement that is genuine, for the first time this evening.

"And that was a threat I could carry out only in two thirds. The driving bit is out of question, for I have to stay _here_ ," she puts the finishing touch to her tirade. "Keep me posted, okay? Or I will pester you with phone calls every thirty minutes."

Normally, being fussed over would have made him irritated but today, it doesn't go beyond the smallest of eye-rolls. Today, she fusses for a valid reason. Weather like they are facing is a force to be reckoned with. "Fine, I will," he promises more grumpily than he feels. From where he stands, at least it gives him more excuses to call her every now and then and try and say something that could cheer her up.

And he does try.

The first phone call is just after the first hour of driving, just to say that the storm is catching up to him. Still, with his speed of driving and only one pit-stop taken, he is quite far north, past York and that makes a very good timing. Abby is glad to hear it but the conversation doesn't last long, as she isn't alone in the lab. The familiar voices in the background tell him that Balboa and his team are there to receive the first results.

The second one is much later, as he passes Duncannon. The US-11/US-15, though covered by snow, is empty so he can allow himself to divide attention between careful driving and calling. He remembers to ask about her family. For a change, it is Abby's brother Luca and her little niece coming down to see her, rather than Abby flying over to New Orleans and he is a little concerned if she is fully prepared to host her Christmas guests in such severe conditions. But she reassures him that her apartment is ready. No point asking about the flight yet, it's too early. Whether on time or cancelled – such info is announced on the day of the arrival.

This is as much as he gets to hear, really, as the reception rapidly worsens. He can just about warn her that he might not be able to call again from the road when his phone dies on him.

The last third of the drive takes three times as long as he would have needed in normal conditions and it's spent in complete silence. The falling snow gradually gets so thick that it shields everything ahead like a curtain and the fog lights, reflected in that whiteness, instead of highlighting the road ahead, only blind him. He doesn't switch them off only because thanks to them _he_ can be seen by other road users. At least that's what the theory says. He can barely see pass five yards. Everything outside his car is white, white, white.

And cold. Cold to the point that stopping for the long-postponed but finally unavoidable pit-stop somewhere along Susquehanna River quickly stops feeling like a relief and turns into almost a torture. After that, even the lukewarm cabin of his pick-up feels like heaven but the painful shrinkage remains for a couple more miles. From then on, he swallows his pride and decides to stop only at the gas stations. After all, some appendages of his body are more valued than others.

And then, literally as he tiredly drives into Stillwater, he feels a bump and moments later, the car shudders to a stop. Accelarating, instead of moving the car forward, only moves it sideways and a quick check outside reveals a flat tire. Infuriated, he kicks it - but whatever slashed it, he can check in the morning. All that he wants is to get out of this blinding blizzard and get himself indoors. Luckily, to get to his father's house, he has only a few hundred more yards to cover. Could have been worse.

The last phone call to Abby is made from the house but not by him. All he can do is to sit by the fire and watch as his father, using the landline, talks to her to ensure her of his safe arrival. And funny thing what the cold does to people. He _hates_ being fussed over, it raises his hackles like wind-over-tide raises the ocean's waters – but this time, no hackles are raised. He doesn't feel the usual, jaw-clenching irritation – all he can feel is the jaw-clenching chill along his spine and plain gratefulness for that fire behind his back, for the cup of freshly brewed coffee pushed into his hands and the warmed up blanket his father unceremoniously wraps around his shoulders. Funny how the cold wind wins over one's pride - and so easily. It was just a few hundred yards.

And funny, how much one can learn by not saying a word. As he watches his father fussing about, the cordless phone squeezed between his ear and his age-slumped shoulder, he is more and more sure that he has missed more than he thought. The naturalness with which his father grabbed the phone _unasked_ , the speed dial apparently assigned to Abby's cell number, the ease with which he chats to her about this or other thing do _not_ make the image of two people who know each other just enough to occasionally exchange seasonal greetings.

And he didn't even know.

Maybe it's better that he arrived earlier. Earlier means more time to ask Jackson Gibbs some questions.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

 **(1) -Lo antes possible (Spanish) - ASAP**

(Edited) - Theresa, hun, thank you so much for your suggestions!


	8. Chapter 8

**AN:**

 **Hello everybody! Your reviews and messages just kept coming and thanks to them, my smile didn't have a chance to go away ;-)**

 **A special thanks to:**

 **Theresa F** – thank you ever so much for pointing out the mistakes I made in the previous chapter! Edited, reposted – hopefully it's better now. Thank you also for the intel for this one!

 **Danielle** – thank you for your suggestions! All taken into consideration.

 **Alex** – thank you for being my sounding board again.

.

 **DISCLAIMER:**

 **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters. They all belong to CBS. I only mess with them, for fun only, not for money.**

.

 **Chapter 8**

"McGee, save me!"

"Save yourself, Tony."

"But I'm gonna die!"

"And I will finally have some peace and quiet."

At that, he just shakes his head. "To do what?" In one agile move, he is off his chair and bounds towards his teammate's desk. Even at an odd angle, one glance is enough to sneak-peak the content displayed on the screen. "Research _body supplements_?"

"Yeah. You should try, Tony. It's important to provide your body with the best you can. The one I've been using isn't that good and…" as he finally looks up from his monitor and their gazes meet, McGee trails off. "Anyway, none of your business. And stop smirking."

"Oh, but how can I? ' _It's important to provide your body with the best you can'_ , he mocks. "You do realize that this stuff doesn't do any magic touches, right? You need to work out, too."

"Gee, no kidding. And before you ask, no, I'm not gonna share my routine with you."

He resists the urge to laugh out loud but barely just. If building of the body mass is McGee's goal, clearly, this exercising routine is _not_ working. "No need, McMrMuscle, no need," he replies, trying to keep his voice even. "I have my own."

"Yeah, lifting pizza, burgers and snacks to your mouth," Tim snaps right back at him.

He wants to laugh it off with some equally sarcastic remark but what's weird, nothing comes to his mind right now. What's even weirder, Tim's words somehow sink in a little and make him rethink the idea of laughing it off. A little more seriously, he glances at Tim, with curiosity that is part personal and part professional. Judging the body's measurements has always been his forte but there's no 'you lost about an inch' in Tim's case. _Everyone's_ eye, even the ignorant one, can tell that Tim has lost much, _much_ more than just an inch.

"Are you on some diet again, Tim?"

"I told you, Tony, I'm not sharing my personal details with you."

"No, I'm serious. If it's a diet, it's working. Maybe I could do with losing a bit here and there."

It's clear that Tim doesn't trust his words. His face, full of doubt as he looks up from the monitor in his direction, speaks loud enough.

"You can quit the act, Tony."

"No, really!" to his own surprise, he _does_ feel quite serious about the subject. "What is it? Are you on some calories count? Detox? Just don't tell me that it's veggies only. The carnivore in me would probably die before day one was over."

"That's because you are used to," McGee is still bristled but not as much as before. "No, no special diet, Tony. Actually, I eat a lot. Just healthier options. You know, less processed stuff, less carbs, more organic meats and veg."

"That's it?"

"Yeah! I'm surprised myself just how easy it came. I didn't even have to give up NutterButter."

He finds it hard to believe. Maybe Tim hasn't lost all that weight over the course of just one month, but it still seemed surprisingly quick and quick never comes easy. Quick comes with a lot of intense work and he knows it from his own experience.

"And how long have you been on your fitness regime?"

"I told you, Tony!" McGee bristles again. "I'm not sharing with you! Next thing I know, all the details will be known to everyone, all the way down to our museum."

"Fine, okay, no need to go all McSnappy on me!" he backs away. "I'm not asking about your entire daily layout. Just taking interest in something that seems to be working well, is all."

McGee gives him another suspicious look but this time doesn't even reply and gets back to whatever he's doing in silence.

He himself also keeps his silence but it doesn't mean that the subject is over for him. Like everything that sparks his interest, it nags at him, tempting to be investigated. And he will – just later. No hurry here. It's not very urgent anyway – just interesting.

A couple of phone calls distract him but these are only from other departments, nothing that would have them gearing up. Not that he longs to up and go; maybe it's a painfully slow day but it's only few hours before the Christmas Eve and the last thing they need is a major case landing on their desks and messing up their plans. And they all have some plans.

It is a while later when Tim gets up, which immediately draws his attention. He watches his teammate walk away to the restroom and the second Tim disappears inside, he springs into action. Approaching the monitor from the side, to avoid walking into the view of Tim's PC camera – it's _always_ on – he peeks. And the small spark of excitement is quickly extinguished; the screen is plain blue and the only active panel is the password request bar. Of course. McSecurity logs out even when he goes for a potty break, apparently.

He gives up on McGee's computer. There are other ways to obtain information.

For now though, he has to do find something to do before his brain melts from boredom. As much as he is glad for no new cases, a slow day at the office is not something he takes lightly.

With this in mind, he crosses the bullpen and picks up a stack of files from Ziva's desk. It won't be his hand that will place the final signature but he might as well look through them and see if there's anything at all that needs correcting. He might as well be useful this way, since there really isn't anything else to do. His own paperwork is already finished and checked. Twice.

He is near the end of the first file when Tim comes back.

"Do you mind if I go for lunch first? I'm kind of starving."

"Yeah, go," he dismisses without even looking.

He expect McGee to simply walk away but in the corner of his eye he registers his teammate still standing by his desk. When he looks up, his gaze meets Tim's rather disbelieving stare.

"What?"

"And that's it? No sarcastic comments, no 'I'm your superior, I have the priority'?"

"McGee, I _am_ and always will be your superior but in this case your empty stomach has a priority," he comments patiently on Tim's suspiciousness. "I had a coffee and a sandwich earlier, I'm fine for now. Go, I will man the fort."

"And now you are nice. What are you up to?"

"It's Christmas, McGee so I kind of have to be nice. Don't get used to though. It will be over before you know it."

With one more suspicious look, Tim shakes his head in silence and turns away to his desk. But as he leans over to retrieve his seasonal sweater and coat, his shirt stretches over his back, revealing its shape that is usually hidden under layers of the loose clothing. Using that brief moment when McGee cannot know that he is being observed, he marvels at his teammate's ultra slim figure. Today, there isn't much left in McGee that would resemble the chubby-cheeked geek he had been when he started here as a Probie years back. No, today there is no noticeable excess of fat on McGee, no. Actually, there is _no_ fat on him, it would seem, none at all. One could say that's impressive.

Only, as McGee passes by his desk and heads for the elevator, it crosses his mind that as that chubby-cheeked guy, Tim looked better. No – not better, he pedals back and searches for a more appropriate word. Healthier. He looked healthier.

Shaking his head at his unexpected interest in McGee's wellbeing, he gets back to work. Going through the files written in Ziva's shapely handwriting, he forces himself to focus on her words and ignore everything else. He manages to go through the entire pile of documents without thinking about anything else but the task at hand. That's probably a record on its own, even if it was only five minutes.

And when he's done with that, he still needs something to do.

Tidying up his desk is _not_ his favorite pastime but he forces himself to go through his messy drawers, slowly and methodically. Item by item, whatever he deems as junk, the content lands in the trash can. He tries to stretch in time the self-delegated task as much as he can, and it does feel like forever but when he checks the time, his first thought is that maybe the wall clock is broken. It's just _impossible_ that all this tidying up took only three minutes!

And he _still_ needs something to do.

Anything would do right now so he gets on about just everything, including replenishing his much used up stationery. A quick trip to the storage and he comes back with supplies not only for himself but with enough to divide them between everybody in the bullpen. He drops the box by McGee's desk, leaving himself and his teammates for later – Boss' desk comes first, as always. For Gibbs, he gets the same amount as for each of them combined; the man despises any electronic devices they sometimes use to record their notes but through the notepads, he goes like a madman.

With a nudge of his hip that pushes Gibbs' swiveling chair out of his way, he slides in behind. With the new pencils away in the holder, for a moment, he entertains the idea of unlocking the top drawer to place the rest of the stationary inside – he still has the spare key to it from the time when this desk was _his_ – but quickly dismisses the thought as utterly stupid. He is not going to even try to imagine what Gibbs' reaction would have been if he ever found out that someone else has access to his desk. No point giving away his little secret because of over eagerness. No, that's not what the key is for…

A familiar, tingly feeling spreads throughout his body, making him grin. What an idiot he is that he didn't he think of it before? Killing time with menial things while he could have been using it for more interesting activities! There were things inside these locked drawers that were worth investigating – there was _always_ something. And the recent little mystery was Gibbs' Secret Santa's gift, something he had gotten to only have a glance at, just once and all too briefly. Now the moment is just perfect; with Boss and Ziva away, Abby off for the day and McGee on his lunch break, he can take a moment to have a proper look inside without a fear of being walked on by anyone. And the few other agents in the Squad Room, as he checks, very much mind their own business. They never interfere with whatever happens in the bull pen anyway. This just _begs_ to take an advantage of it. Hopefully, Boss left the cologne in the drawer…

Leaving the notepads by the front monitor, he bounces back to his desk and quickly snaps a pair of latex gloves on. _Always wear gloves at a crime scene,_ he rubs his hands excitedly. Some of his fingerprints on the exterior of the desk could be explained – but on any of the personal belongings inside…

The tiny key is practically in the drawer's lock when the phone ring startles him out of his fun. He shifts in the squeaky chair and reaches to his pocket – and at the sight of the number on the display, he nearly drops the whole bunch of his keys on the floor. Right now, he can think of only one person who might be calling from Pennsylvania.

Quickly snapping off and pocketing the gloves, he presses 'answer' and greets the caller officially, just in case, "Special Agent DiNozzo, how can I help you?"

"Oh, you can, DiNozzo," the voice on the other side of the line _does_ of course belong to Gibbs but sounds suspiciously soft. And usually, when it's this soft, it doesn't mean anything good, "But first, help _yourself_ by convincing me that whatever you are doing right now is work related."

"A hundred percent work related, Boss," he confirms, glad that he has something he can talk about with all honesty. After all, isn't restocking pencils, stapler pins and notepads part of the job?

"Okay, I'm convinced. Now, update, I'm listening."

Relieved that he had successfully passed one of many of Gibbs' mini tests, he adjusts the height of the seat and then leans backwards, making himself more comfortable. At least _that_ , his all-knowing superior cannot see from where he is right now. He launches into office talk, and for the next few minutes they cover the latest developments on the case they had closed before the weekend and all the other office issues that, whilst minor, still need to be reported. He understands. Normally, even with him being the Agency's Senior Lead Special Agent, Gibbs wouldn't have to trouble himself with all of it whilst on well-deserved holiday. Filling in for their recuperating director, however, changes the matter entirely; even away for a few days, he needs to be up to date with just about everything. And Gibbs, being Gibbs, doesn't forget a detail, including asking about how the weather affected the Yard and D.C. altogether. That's understandable, too.

What _does_ surprise him though is Gibbs inquiring about airports, flight cancellations and whether his dad will manage to fly down from New York or not. "Actually, he's already here," he reveals, touched that his superior remembered and cared to ask. "Since Saturday night, apparently. Which, I know of since yesterday morning."

"So, he's not staying at yours?"

"No. At Hay-Adams House, as always."

"And he is paying for that _how_?"

"I'm not gonna even pretend I know, Boss. And I'm not gonna ask. My dad might conveniently use my expressed disbelief as an opening and ask me to pick up his hotel bill."

"He might try anyway. Don't let him play you, Tony," Gibbs' warning sounds solemn, without any hint of his usual sarcasm.

And he appreciates the advice.

"Not a chance," he reassures and he means it. He cares for his dad, he can't help it – but he not blind to his egocentrism. Anthony DiNozzo Sr. isn't exactly the type who would be satisfied with any basic help. No, his old man is more of a type who, when given a finger, would immediately take an entire hand and then, with a charming smile, keep demanding some more – over and over. "I'm glad he suggested Christmas dinner together but that doesn't make him daddy of the year yet."

"Amen to that," he hears and hums in agreement. The subject is maybe touchy but the approval in Gibbs' voice makes it worth the effort to talk about it. As the boss, Gibbs can be sometimes very tough on all of them but he is also one of the most supportive people he knows. And his approval means a lot, always had – both on the professional and private ground.

"Still, Tony," Gibbs carries on, his voice weirdly mused, "Even if it's just dinner, I hope it will be nice. For the both of you."

"Thanks, Boss," he utters, honestly surprised. To hear something like _that_ from Gibbs is like having the real Christmas. Maybe, he thinks, it isn't without the influence of one Jackson Gibbs. The man really has had a little mellowing effect on his life-toughened son, even if neither of them would ever admit to it openly. "And how is on your end?" he changes the subject. Talking about his dad is not a subject suited for a brief phone call at the office. These things are easier to digest by the fireplace, when they are dissolved in a few bottles of beer and swallowed down with a cowboy style steak of Gibbs' doing. "Stillwater buried under the snow to the rooftops yet?"

"No," he hears in reply. "Just up to my ears."

The tone of Boss' voice makes him smile. The ever-present sarcasm is back but he knows the difference between Gibbs' 'put a sock' sarcasm and the 'I'm almost kidding' sarcasm. "Feeling like getting a sled and a few reindeers, Boss?" he dares a joke.

"No. Prefer huskies," he hears the deadpan over the line and laughs quietly at the response. It's nice to hear the boss in a good mood. It does happen – but only sometimes and in his personal opinion, that's definitely not often enough.

Just as he is about to ask about Jackson, there is some distant noise in the background and by the voice that demands something insistently, he recognizes the elderly man himself. "Alright, dad, I'm coming, I'm coming!" Gibbs' voice is muffled now, is if the microphone of the handset was covered but it's still audible enough to hear the impatience of the shout. He grins widely upon hearing that. If a mellow mood is rare in the world of Leroy Jethro Gibbs, getting to witness him act like an annoyed teenager is even rarer and therefore, absolutely _priceless._ "You got anything important and my cell's unavailable, call the number you have on your display," Gibbs carries on, louder again and decidedly more businesslike. "It's my dad's landline."

That, he knows; Ziva had once called him using that phone in Jackson's store. The signal in Stillwater had always been iffy at best and now, due to the weather, is very likely to be dead.

"You got it, Boss," he promises. Deep down though, despite being bored, he hopes that the day will remain uneventful. Only another four hours, and Quantico office will take over, releasing them from duty for the duration of the holidays. They all need a proper, undisturbed break – and their leader especially, even if the man himself would kill with his glare anyone who would dare suggesting that he needed rest. "But in case nothing comes up and I do _not_ need to call," he shifts in the chair, "say 'hi' and 'Merry Christmas' to your dad from me, Boss?"

"I will, thanks," he hears. "Do something for me too?"

"Sure, Boss."

"Make sure my chair is readjusted before I come back."

As the meaning of Gibbs' words sink in, he stiffens and then practically springs out of the said chair.

"But I'm…"

"Merry Christmas, DiNozzo!" Boss' voice, almost cheery this time, cuts him off firmly before he can explain anything. Then, the tone in his cell goes dead but he could swear that a second before the call got disconnected, he had heard a muffled chuckle.

Will anyone ever figure out Leroy Jethro Gibbs?

"How did he…?" he mutters a little dumbfounded. A thought occurs and he spins around, glancing in a direction of the camera that looks over the bull pen. But there is no light indicating that someone might be currently surveilling this area. Besides, Gibbs wouldn't have access to it right now anyway. Then how the hell did he know? "It's like you do something and he just sees it, even from miles away," he complains to himself. "Maybe it's that ESP Abby keeps talking about…"

Whatever it was, it makes him abandon any thoughts of unlocking Boss' desk. Instead, he just lowers the chair and walks away, over to McGee's corner, where he had left the box with the supplies. After taking whatever he needs for himself, he deals with McGee's and Ziva's desks, simply leaving the stationery by their monitors, as neatly as he can. McGee is McGee, always McNuts about the order in his belongings and Ziva… well, Ziva is not that far behind McGee, really. For the seemingly easygoing thing she now is, Probationary Agent Chillax can still suddenly turn into Miss Murderous Ninja whenever she finds her desk in total mess upon returning to the office. And he much prefers her in a good mood. Good mood looks good on her. Really good.

With this in mind, he also straightens the stack of the reports he had checked for her earlier, as well as the haphazardly piled office mail that had arrived since her departure on Friday. And as he does, amongst the yellow manila folders and enveloped letters, he spots a package that does not look like the typical office correspondence. It's thick, stiff and colorful, and his curiosity makes him pull it out of the pile. And as he stares at the cellophane wrapped skiing holiday catalogue, he regrets this curiosity, for the second time today, although for a different reason. This catalogue is a reminder. Like he needed any! She'd been rather secretive about her holiday plans but not secretive enough, at least not for him. All it had taken to know was a photo of a picturesque valley he had spotted from behind her shoulder and a quick, stolen glance at the subject of the e-mail the photo was attached to. _**'Come with me?'**_ was rather hard to misinterpret and from bits and pieces of a phone call she made right after she finished reading the e-mail, he got his confirmation about the mysterious sender of that invite.

 _That_ guy. Mr. Miami Heat.

And it just had to be Aspen, of all places…

The cellophane wrap crackles loudly under his tightening fingers. He feels like tearing the whole catalogue apart; tear it to pieces and then some more till there is nothing left but paper dust. But in the end, it's just a bunch of printed pages stuck together, an item innocent in all this, and tearing it apart won't change the reality. And the reality is that he also was meaning to invite her for a little winter getaway – invite her despite the risk of being either decked, or coolly dejected, or worse, simply laughed at. And there she is now, in Aspen, in the very place he had been thinking of for months, as he was gathering the courage – but with someone else.

Not for the first time, he thinks just how much he would like to be able to turn back the clock and somehow influence Gibbs to change the assignments he had given them back when they were investigating the activity of the Reynosa Cartel. If only Ziva had gone to Canada, instead of Miami… Ever since they had rescued her from Somalia, things between them gradually got better, better to the point that allowed him to believe that they were finally heading in a direction he wanted. It was really good between them… until she met that damn guy in Miami…

Or, better yet, turn back the clock even more and take some more decisive steps in Paris?

Or, go even further and never leave her behind in Israel…

Maybe, maybe…

His cell goes off again, this time announcing a text message being received. And the preview of this message on the display makes him clench his teeth even more.

Seriously?

"Must be ESP," he mutters, as he unlocks the screen.

' _ **Hello, Tony.'**_ he reads the rest of the text, _**'I hope you will have a good time with your dad tonight. I wish you with all my heart that things between you two go well and that everything else works out for you as well. With seasonal greetings – Ziva.'**_

Oh, what wouldn't he give for that 'everything else' – namely, all that is between him and Ziva, whatever it is – to work out!

"What no good are you up to, DiNozzo?"

The booming voice behind him, even though he knows that it _can't_ possibly be his boss', sounds so eerily like Gibbs' that he instinctively stiffens and then, whips around. "Abby!" he exclaims, "It's Christmas, not Halloween! And since when do _you_ successfully sneak up on people anyway?"

"You were so lost in thought that even a stomping Godzilla could sneak up on you," his friend grins cheekily at him from behind the bull pen's divider. "So, I repeat my question: what no good were you up to, huh? Actually, wait, don't tell me. I will try to work it out myself."

As she breezes around the divider, he has just enough time to slip the abused catalogue back into the pile of Ziva's mail. By the time Abby walks into the bull pen, the desk looks almost as neat as it should be and he walks out from behind it, to draw Abby's attention away from it. And as she drops her rather sizeable bag onto Gibbs' desk, he spots something even better that could lead her even further away from investigating what has been going on in the bull pen so far. "Okay, Little Lady in Red over there! Coat off!" he demands. "I wanna see it."

At his order, Abby merely tilts her head at him in amusement but nevertheless does as he asks. And as she sheds her black winter coat, revealing the rest of her Christmas outfit, he lets out a short whistle. "Watch out!" he exclaims. It's funny, how he can feel at the same time both the anger about Ziva's choices and the eagerness to find whatever tiny pleasures in everyday life he can enjoy. Or, maybe it is _because_ of it but who cares. "What party are you going to, Mrs. Santa?

"Miss, Tony. _Miss_ Santa," she corrects him and twirls to show off. "Do you like it?"

He gives Abby a blatant once over as she spins. Most of her outfits are cool and so is this one but it's somehow a different cool. It takes him just a moment to register why; despite its positively provocative red color and the body hugging bodice, the dress is nevertheless surprisingly tame. It's due to its full length sleeves, modestly laced up neckline and its length; the soft fabric flares gently from the waist down, ending just above Abby's knee high leather boots. In short, it accentuates all it should without actually exposing a thing. Change the footwear and that beautifully embroidered dress would be a quintessence of a classic elegance, a sight rather rare on Abby. "Well, I have two complaints," he pretends to scowl. "One – where is the skeleton Santa, the studs, the zirconia bats and the like?"

Abby narrows her eyes at him. "Tony, I expected better of you, being DiNozzo and all. This," she points down at her dress, "is _cashmere_ and while I am crazy, I'm not as crazy as to ruin cashmere with _any_ beading!"

Surprise after surprise!

"You and _cashmere_."

"Yeah. Me and cashmere – and we get on really well if you must know. It looks good, feels good and I love it!"

"So you _did_ go girly shopping after all."

"I didn't! It's a present from one of my cousins from New Orleans. End of story, okay? What's your other complaint?"

He looks accusingly down, at her shapely, fur trimmed boots. "Why can't I see your legs? I mean, these boots look awesome but if I were you, I would've matched this dress with some high heels!"

"And you, in a red dress and high heels would be a sight to behold, for sure. As for me… I don't know, maybe I will… but definitely not today. I will be doing a lot or running about and I don't fancy breaking both legs and then die of hypothermia, buried under all that snow. Boots are a safer option… quite literally."

"Okay, I give you that, it _is_ cold. But promise me that you are wearing this," he motions at her dress, " _and_ heels to that dinner of ours after the New Year's Eve?"

"Ask me nicely after the New Year's Eve and maybe I will," Abby grins again and then points her finger at him. "Now, stop distracting me. Santa Abby is investigating!"

Before he can stop her, she twirls away, her attention now fully on his desk. After just a few seconds, in the same rapid way, she assesses the rest of the bull pen, going as far as to venture into everyone's working space and even crouch in a funny way over some non-descriptive spot on the carpet. And then, not even thirty seconds later, she is done. And, judging by the certainty on her face, so is he.

"You cleared up your drawers, played the delivery boy and when I interrupted you, it appears that you were tidying Ziva's desk too," her verdict only confirms. "That's okay though, that's just boredom talking. The naughty bit? You were sitting in Gibbs' chair."

"Okay, okay, I did!" he admits. Better to talk about Gibbs' desk than about Ziva's. "But how can _you_ know? Gibbs knows – I'm fine with it, he always knows everything. But you? You weren't even here! Or, were you? Admit it! Where were you? Here? Upstairs?"

"C'mon, Tonyman," Abby gives him her patented 'are you kidding me' look, "How many years have you been working as an investigator? We're talking basic deduction here. Let's start with your trash can. It saw it empty last night and now it's full of your stuff. Moving on. That box over there? It seems too big for the few items left on the bottom, there must've been more but where did it all go? To Mozambique? But no, wait! I can see some brand new, unsharpened pencils on each desk! Some are in pencil holders and some just laid out next to the equally brand new notepads. I know McGee wasn't the one who put them there because firstly, he is out, his coat is gone, and secondly, if he _had_ played the delivery boy, he would have put the notepads in an exact same spot on each desk and aligned them so they are in a perfect parallel with the edge. And those on yours are in mess, mister, he would have never left it like that. And as for Gibbs' chair – underneath it there is a wrapper of your favorite chewing gum. You always stuff them back into the right pocket of your pants and they always fall out when you sit down. Also, the chair itself is one inch too high. And lastly," she drumrolls in the air, "your cologne is still detectable all over Gibbs' area. My nose doesn't lie."

For a moment, he just stands there, thinking of something super smart to say. Years of knowing Abby, he's used to her ways of finding evidence in everything – and yet, she never ceases to astound him. It's not _what_ she's found though – they all are trained to look, take notice, analyze and draw conclusions, and what she has noticed in the bull pen was indeed easy enough – it's _how fast_ she finds it and connects the dots together.

"You are scary," he accuses in a friendly manner. "You're actually sometimes scarier than Gibbs."

"I am?" his friend's eyes grow wide, just like her smile and then she fist pumps the air lightly. "Yay me!"

He smiles back, honestly glad for her cheerfulness. Leave it to Abby to provide a bit of sunshine just when one needs it!

"And you are also unexpected," he reminds, leaning against his desk. "I thought you were off after working the weekend?"

"I am! I came in only to deliver some of the results I ran yesterday for Balboa. I'm done with that so the only thing I have left to do is to deliver the presents. After that, poof! I'm off, I have many places to go to."

"Yeah, I bet," with her family coming over, he is sure that Abby will be more than just busy. And then, he catches on. "Wait, did you say _presents?_ "

"Well, duh!" Abby shakes her head at him gently. "Have you forgotten what day it is? You, the one who was most obsessed with them?"

"No, I haven't but that's not what I mean, Abs! I don't have anything for you! I mean, I do but not here," he explains. "I thought you won't be in today and I was gonna drop by at yours after work!"

"Aw, Tony, that's sweet! But no rush, okay? I won't be home till very, very late so you can do it tomorrow or whenever, really."

"Not an option. Where are you going to be around seven?"

"That, I will know around six so call me then!" Abby practically dances away towards Gibbs' desk, where she begins to dig in her bag. The items she fishes out of it end up deposited on McGee's and then, Ziva's desk, after which she turns to him again. "I would have preferred if we had a bigger get together, a little more in a spirit but it wasn't meant to be this year. So there, as simply as it comes – Merry Christmas, Tony," she comes closer, holding out a thin, rectangular package.

"Grazie mille, Santa Abby! What is it? Action movie? A romantic comedy that guarantees a successful date? Or is it one of those mega-scary horror stories we get the whole team together to watch and laugh off?" he guesses jokingly as he fingers the gift through the golden wrap. He isn't any forensic genius but he is Tony DiNozzo and one of the many things Tony DiNozzo _can_ do is to recognize a DVD box just by its shape and size. The way it feels in his hand merely confirms it.

"Just open and find out," Abby shrugs innocently.

There is no need to tear the paper; the folded edges are held together by a single snowflake-like sticker and once he peels it off, the stiff paper opens up almost by itself. And as he finally unwraps the box inside and stares at the two men on the DVD's cover, he can feel his mood changing once more, from cheered up to shocked. What he is holding in his hand, isn't any random produce of some last minute shopping spree, some movie he would merely smile at and maybe watch at some indefinable moment in the future. As a matter of fact, this was _not_ bought in any store. He, as fan of stage satire, just _knows_ it.

"Could it be true, that I hold here, in this mortal hand of mine, a precious recording that was thought to be lost forever?" he asks dramatically, "Oh, fair Lady Abigail, how did you ever get hold of it?"

"Oh, dear Signor DiNozzo, if I told you, I'd have to kill you," Abby whispers in a tone that is just as conspiratorial as his. "Although, I already feel like killing you for calling me Abigail but I will let it slide – just this time! Because today, it's all about having a good time and I hope you will have a good time watching it. That is, if your TV set is still holding up, of course."

"Still fine thanks to your Abby-cadabra surgery, don't jinx it, per favore!" he waves his hands defensively. And then, he opens his arms wider and Abby walks into his embrace willingly, "Tonight, me and Peter Cook's long lost Australian Tour it is. Christmas couldn't be merrier."

"I'm glad to hear you like it," she laughs softly. "Still, I hope Christmas will be merry for you even before you get to watch it."

As they part, he looks questioningly at Abby's still smiling but now a little more solemn face.

"This is after all, just a DVD, Tony. And in life, in the end, only people matter, people you love. So, I really, really hope that you and Senior have a good time. Not just entertaining, because that, you both excel at, but really, really good. You know what I mean," she explains and he nods in acknowledgement. "We all wish you that. All of us."

"Thanks, Abs," he replies. There is no need to say more; everyone on their team is by now aware of his strained relation with his dad but Abby, alongside with Gibbs and Ducky, knows a little more than the others. They simply know him the longest. "Now, tell me what to wish you! What do you even wish to someone who seems to be very content with herself even without anybody's help?"

"Tony, I am content because I _choose_ to be, with whatever I managed to achieve, for as long as I gave my best to fight for it," Abby shrugs. "But if you want to wish me something, wish me to be enough."

"Enough?" he doesn't quite understand. Abby's way of thinking could be sometimes puzzling to say the least.

"You know, enough good, enough helpful, enough smart, enough a woman, enough strong, enough a diplomat, etcetera, etcetera. Enough in everything, in general, to achieve what I want to."

"One word and it covers it all. Smartly thought, I like it!" now, he understands. "Okay then, I wish you to be enough in whatever matters to you, in whatever life throws at you."

"Thanks, Tony! Since it's a Christmas wish, it might just come true!"

"Who knows? In that case, wish me the same!"

"You got it! I wish you to be enough – in whatever you feel that you need to be enough. And then just go and get it!"

" _I want to be enough for Ziva,"_ he wishes to himself as he hugs Abby once more, probably even tighter this time. From the way she reciprocates his bear hug with one of her own, he doesn't think she minds. She is, after all, a hugger. A hugger and a sunshine bringer.

And some of that sunshine of hers stays, even after she is already gone from the office. When he grabs his phone to reply to Ziva, he replies in a different way than he would have done only ten minutes earlier.

' _ **Shalom, Ziva and thank you for the wishes. I hope for it, as well. And you too, Z, have fun – wherever you are getting your suntan! …but not too much fun or you might forget to come back. And that, Ziva David, we will not have. You belong here, with us.'**_ By 'us' he means himself but that, he can't say, of course. At least, not yet. But he knows about her need of having something permanent in her life and he wants to be that something. And one day, he will tell her openly. ' _ **Besides,'**_ he carries on typing _ **, 'I'm holding your present (from Abby) hostage so if you wanna see it, you just have to come back. Hannukah Sameah!'**_

 _You just come back, Ziva, and you'll see,"_ he makes a quiet promise as he presses 'send'. Abby's words about giving her best made him realize something. He didn't give his best to fight for Ziva, not really. He had fought for her life, fair enough – but didn't do enough to fight for her heart. He only waited, for her to heal, giving her all the time and space she needed, then for the things between them to smooth down, waited even more patiently when things did start to get better, wished with all his heart for _something_ to happen, something that would help him prove himself to her… Well, maybe he just waited too long.

So, enough of waiting, enough of wishful thinking! Time to simply _make_ it happen! He is a man of action, for crying out loud! _"I know I'm good enough for you, Ziva, and I know that we can be great together. Paris was only a taste of that. And I'm gonna prove it to you. Just come back and you'll see."_

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	9. Chapter 9

_**Hi guys,**_

 _ **Sorry for the delay… did not have much time to write recently and besides, s15/e22 had gotten really, really deep under my skin and kind of gave me a writer's block. I had to watch some re-runs to get myself back in the mood. Seasons 1-10 are where my heart is. And just a reminder – my story is set mid-season 8.**_

 _ **DISCLAIMER:**_

 _ **I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters. They all belong to CBS. I wish I did own them though…**_

 _ **.**_

 **Chapter 9**

.

It is not uncommon, to return home after being away for a bit, and feel strange in one's own house. He is no exception; the house feels odd, somehow off even, like every single time he's been away for more than three days. But he ignores the sensation; from his experience, he knows that it will be gone within less than an hour. His more immediate interest lies elsewhere. First things first – check the perimeter. It's not every day but people do pop in. It sometimes happens also during his absence and he doesn't see why this time should be any different.

A quick check-up both upstairs and in the basements ascertains him that right now, there is no one present beside him. But somebody _had_ been here and sees the proof of it when he turns the driveway lights on. The deep snow behind the locked kitchen door isn't as pristine as the one in the front garden and on the porch had been before he arrived. From the way the shoeprints go both ways, to and from the door, one could assume that the visitor came and left, but he is not the assuming kind of guy. All his senses tell him that this somebody _had_ , in fact, entered. Of that, he gets the proof when he spots an unfamiliar object hidden partially behind his couch. This somebody left something behind. And he is wary of things left behind.

But one look at the large tag attached to the parcel makes him relax. He recognizes the all-capitalized handwriting; a package from _this_ person is definitely safe to open.

It's a common knowledge that he, Leroy Jethro Gibbs doesn't care much about gifts. But the common knowledge does not reflect the reality, not entirely. He doesn't show it but he does care – some presents mean a little more than the other ones. Such is the one currently in his hands. Right now, only his common sense stops him from unwrapping it in this very instant. _Things to do_ , he reminds himself. He goes on about it, dutifully; moments later though the two-digit number of the things that just have to be done somehow shrinks down to just two. With the coffee machine and the central heating turned on, he decides that the world won't end if the remaining dozen of his other tasks waits a bit.

The parcel, an average cardboard box, is easy enough to open. Inside, he finds something that at the first glance looks very much like a cuboidal cage. But a closer look reveals that the cage is in fact a Christmas decoration, nicely weaved with black, glittery wire, and sort of wrapped with strands of a similar, but red wire that makes the whole thing looks like a classic gift with a shapely bow tie on top. And inside it, sits yet another box, black and slightly shiny. But how to get to it? The sparkly cage seems to be made out of one piece of black wire, without any visible lids that can be lifted up. He even thinks that maybe he would need to use a wire cutter; that wouldn't be unlike Abby, to make a packaging like that. But then, rotating the cage in every way, he notices that it _does_ have an opening – on the bottom. All he has to do is to lift the box up, making enough space for the double trap door-like opening to swing inwards, and then, let the box slide out.

The item he finds inside seems very anticlimactic at first, after all this hassle with the outer packaging. A travel mug. Just an average travel mug, large size and all black, including the silicone lid. _'Looks handy,'_ he admits as he takes the lid off. The inside is black, too – but it doesn't stop him from noticing that there is something on the bottom. And he recognizes the item the second he turns the mug towards the light. A paracord bracelet is something he would have recognized even just by touching it with a fingertip.

The one that slides out onto his open palm is not a standard simple weave though. The pattern is more complicated and judging by just by its width and thickness, he estimates that it might easily contain about thirteen feet of paracord in total length. What is also not typical, is the item that dangles from the bracelet. Its shape is more than familiar though. It's a dog tag but larger than the standard military issue, with what it looks like an entire sentence etched into it. He tries to read it and fails; the letters are way too small for him to make out. With a scowl of impatience, he gets up and retrieves his reading glasses from his backpack. Once he has them on, the print then becomes clearer – and brings an instant smile on his face.

 _ **# 9.2. – Never go anywhere without a rope!**_

"Rule 9.2, huh?" he shakes his head, honestly amused. "Why didn't I think of that?"

And one never knows – maybe it will prove it handy one day. His knife had, many times.

The coffee machine beckons him with a single beep and he eagerly moves over to the kitchen, grabbing the mug as he goes. Having spent the last couple of hours without a truly decent coffee, he needs one _right now_ , even if he had to drink it straight from the coffee pot itself. But he might as well try the new mug. Why not? A quick rinse and wipe, and there it is, sitting on the kitchen's counter, filled almost to the brim with the aromatically steaming liquid. Leaving it to cool down a bit, just so the coffee's temperature drops below his burning level, he goes on about preparing some resemblance of a dinner. Aside from some eggs, the fridge houses only a lots of air – a reminder that he should have stopped at the store on a way here – so he is left with choice of dry foods. Deciding on the good old spaghetti, he takes out the tinned tomato sauce out of the cupboard – and stops mid movement.

The mug that he left by the kettle, is no longer black; starting from the bottom, it's now almost white and as he's staring at it, it's still changing its color, quickly brightening all the way to the top. And as it's happening, it reveals some black figures that have been thus far invisible on the blackness of the ceramic. Curiously, he picks it up by the handle to inspect it closer. In a wake of the receding black, left behind there are some words and then, a pair of blue eyes that look like taken straight out of some comic book. Last to be revealed, is a pair of greyish, angrily frowned eyebrows. Disbelievingly, he holds the mug at arm's length, not sure if what he is right about what he sees. But the words printed below the drawing confirm that this is definitely _not_ just any old mug from a novelty store's shelf.

' _ **I AM A MARINE'S COFFEE**_

– _**SO DON'T MESS WITH ME!'**_

It's a loose adaptation of another of his rules. And if the print is customized, it's rather certain that the drawing is, too, and that means that the resemblance isn't a coincidence. And damn, but don't these eyes look like his! It shouldn't be surprising though. Abby had drawn something similar before – the comic-like sketches that looked very much like McGee and Tony. What _is_ surprising is that she had chosen now of all times to make one of him. It's funny, considering what he had thought of as a present for her…

He muses at the likeness. He can't say that he'd ever spent a moment imagining himself as a comic character – that's just _not_ in his area of interest – but now, staring at the piercingly blue eyes that stare right back at him with an almost intimidating fierceness, he can't help but admit that this is exactly how he would have looked as one. For a moment, he even toys with an idea of a comic book about their work at NCIS. Should anyone ever created one, it would have been definitely an entertaining one, packed with a rather eclectic selection of individuals, drama, action and parody thrown in for good measure.

He rolls his eyes at his thoughts straying in rather ridiculous directions but surprisingly to himself, he also grins widely, a smile he doesn't bother hiding since there isn't a soul around to see it. NCIS as a comic book! "Ah, hell, Gunny," he mutters to himself. "You've been around geeks for too long…"

Somehow, he no longer feels the tiredness, the result of the long, monotonous drive. Interesting, taking into account that he hasn't had even one sip yet. Instead, the amusement makes him feel a little more alive and as he begins slowly sipping on his coffee, that liveliness only increases, soon morphing into impatience. By the time he is through half a cup, a decision is already made. A quick run around to collect the items he'd intended to deliver tomorrow, coat back on, the rest of his coffee downed in a few quick gulps and he is off, any thoughts of making a meal abandoned. The coffee will do for now.

The drive through the city isn't very long and soon enough, he parks his truck outside of a building which he knows almost like his own house. There are a few things that have changed since he has been here last, he notes. It includes the entrance code. But he has always had his ways round it and minutes later, he's on the third floor, knocking on the solid wooden door. The first, gentle knock isn't enough and neither is his second, a much louder one; only when he finally resolves to pressing the doorbell, the music that comes from inside quiets. As the door finally opens, the only thing that appears in the gap limited by the security chain is a carefully peeking olive-green eye; an eye that widens in an utter surprise and then, joy.

"Gibbs?" The door immediately shuts for a moment and when it opens again, the chain is gone. "I didn't know you were back already! But why here…? Something happened?"

 _'Just couldn't wait to see you,'_ his mind supplies eagerly."No, why?"

"Oh, good," Abby breathes with relief. "Sorry, I'm just surprised. You haven't been here since… Never mind, come on in!" she steps aside to let him in. "So, what brings you to my humble abode?"

"Something I didn't do on Saturday," at her questioning look, he simply quirks his own eyebrow. And in a flat voice, just as not to appear too enthusiastic, he mutters as he passes by her, 'Ho, ho, ho!'"

"Really?" he can hear how Abby's surprise smoothly changes into intrigue on the last syllable. "How could I not guess right away? Your red hoodie is a dead giveaway… Although, it wouldn't hurt if you dyed your backpack red, put some white hat on… and let your five o'clock grow for five more days…"

With his hand subconsciously running across his jaw, he feels the rough scratch of his short beard under his fingers – and the beginnings of a smile that mercilessly stretches his lips. "Fine, if you wanna wait five more days…"

Just as he turns, he can hear the metallic scrape of a door lock being engaged again and then, Abby faces him with a playful smirk. Without a word, she holds a single key between her fingers, a silent message that he isn't going anywhere and then, drops it into the loosely laced up neck opening of her tunic. And it's a good thing that he's always been so good at schooling his face so it reveals nothing. But it's probably even a better thing that Abby turns away and leads him further into her lounge, because he is sure as hell that his thoughts must be somehow showing on his face anyway. Biting his tongue about him getting this key out is easy enough. Not saying out loud the things he is thinking – that is his second nature. Not _thinking_ them – that is a different matter altogether. And these thoughts, about how he really, _really_ wouldn't mind getting this key out – and the urge isn't about opening the door, really – it is something she shouldn't know about…

"C'mon, make yourself comfy," Abby motions him to her large sectional and as he accepts the offer, she taps on a keyboard on the laptop that sits on the table in front of it. A second later the music is back, playing from the speakers all around the lounge, though at the level that is pleasant to the ears. "Coffee?"

That, he accepts, too. Never mind that he had already had one coffee no longer than half an hour ago. A good coffee never hurts and at least he will have something to occupy his hands and eyes with.

And occupy his eyes it does, when Abby returns. Though, if he was to be completely honest with himself, it is what _behind_ the two steaming mugs Abby carries on a tray that occupies his attention. And it doesn't get any easier when she places the tray on the low coffee table in front of him, momentarily giving him even more view into that damn neck opening. For a split of a second, he can even see the key, tucked away in her bra.

 _'Down, Gunny! You came here to check on her, not to check her out!'_ Kicking himself mentally for allowing his eyes to stray in _this_ direction – again – he forces himself to focus on something else. "No dead Santa, Abs?" he asks. At her slightly confused look, he calls out a little smirk of his face. "Your clothes," from his spot, he points in a general direction of her tunic. Its midnight blue is rich enough for it to get away as a Christmas outfit but there are no usual seasonal ornaments on it, not even one. "No bony Santa, no radioactive reindeers, no black elves? You sure you're Abby?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, not you too!" Abby sighs as if she was suffering greatly and it leaves him suddenly pondering who else asked her the same question. "You do know that I own some normal, non-Goth clothes too, right?"

"You mean those for Halloween, when you dress like normal people," he doesn't intend the tease to be mean so he tops it up with a warm smile.

And Abby gets it; she is clearly amused, although her narrowed, quickly blinking eyes indicate that she is busy loading her cannons. "You are in a _suspiciously_ good mood, Gibbs," she shoots.

And he just shrugs, sort of confirming. Because, yeah, well, he is! The time in his family home in Stillwater was nice, he can't deny it, even nicer than he expected – but it is seeing her now that makes him feel truly better. He had missed her, even if it was just a few days. Not that he will say. And he did want to check on her. Departing for Stillwater, he had been torn, knowing that he was leaving her in a rather fragile mood, no matter how she had tried to convince him that she was fine. But he reasoned with himself later, telling himself that she had been through worse and that the impending visit from her brother and her niece will surely cheer her up, redirect her thoughts and making her focus on the positive stuff. And looks like he had been right; she seemed to be in rather good mood as he arrived. That too, makes him feel good.

"Happens even to me," he admits.

"So, what made you so? I mean, of course, besides having a good time with your dad? Has he finally allowed you to go for your dreamed camp trip in the forest?"

Anyone else speaking to him like that and they wouldn't get away. But even with Abby, he cannot leave it unaddressed. "I look like I need dad's permission for anything?"

To that, Abby just chuckles. "But you are not denying having being in the forest," with one long look, she assesses his entire body, her gaze stopping momentarily at his chest and shoulders. "And you don't have to. You still have pine needles on your coat."

Damn – and he was so sure he had had cleaned it well after his pre-departure walk about in Whispering Pines. "Where?"

"There… you go!" he sees nothing under his collar or lapels but the satisfaction in Abby's voice tells him that he needs to look no further. "Guilty as charged."

Feeling a little foolish for actually falling for such a ridiculously basic trick, he looks up and stares intensely at her, trying to cover up the slight embarrassment. "Want the present, Abs, or coal?"

"But Gibbs! I'm just glad that a little time out in the wild restored your spirit a bit! I mean, look at you, all wind swept skin and glinting eyes! But if you feel like giving me a lump of coal for being happy for you, fine, so be it. Coal can be turned into fun too."

Whilst he has no doubt about her ability to do just that, he can smell the bluff as clearly as he can smell that freshly brewed coffee in front of him and all the other fragrances that permeate the air in the room. Abby loves receiving gifts, always had, as much as she loves giving them. "So…" he deliberately stretches the word for the effect and reaches for the coffee she had brought him to keep the suspense for one more moment longer, "…it's fine if I take the present from my dad back to Stillwater, yeah?"

Bingo.

"Your dad's…? You mean you've got the one from Gibbs Senior, too?" All her cool is gone, a joyful disbelief shining clearly in her wide open eyes.

He continues to drink, slowly, hiding his satisfied smirk behind the mug. "Oh, so coal from me is fine but something from Gibbs _Senior_ makes all the difference, huh?" he mocks affectionately.

"No, I'm just... surprised," Abby looks only half apologetic. "I thought I will get it by post, just like I sent his."

Another thing he had no idea about. But good to know. "Uh-huh."

He puts down his mug and moments later, he can with an amusement observe just how right he was about her, bluffing. Once she has the gift in her hands, she wastes little time in untying the ribbon and unwrapping the paper, eager to get to the item inside. Her small squeal of delight once it's revealed, tops it up.

"Gibbs… Gibbs, tell me I'm not wrong! This is handmade, right?"

His father had refused to tell him what he had gotten for her but one glance at the simple yet nevertheless nice, highly polished jewelry box and he can confirm with all certainty. He knows his father's hand… it is his dad he had learnt from, after all.

Before he can add anything else, Abby is already on the phone, her cell having appeared seemingly out of nowhere in her hand. Had he have any doubts as to whom she is calling, her, "Oh Jackson, thank you, thank you, thank you!" exclaimed excitedly into her phone is enough. And he understands her joy. Abby loves receiving gifts but there's something she loves even more; if the gift had been handmade by the giver. And apparently, his father knows it too now. Considering that, as he'd been told, these two are practically regular pen pals, it's not surprising. But he doesn't mind that anymore – at least not as much as only a few days prior.

The cheerful exchange doesn't last long. After merely a couple of sentences thrown hastily back and forth, the tone changes into more normal, when Abby comments on something his father had clearly asked her. "Oh, he hasn't called you yet, has he? Then let's fix it! Here, I'm passing my phone to him!" she states matter-of-factly and next thing he knows, he has her cell thrust up against his ear. Little choice he has but to accept it and subject himself to the parental interrogation.

"Yeah, dad, roads were good, mostly cleared," he manages to wedge a few words into the flood of the concerned questions that pours out from the tiny ear piece. "Couldn't call earlier, the battery in my phone died… Yeah, only just now."

And then, his father comments about paying late visits whilst straight from the road and the significance of such urgency in a man and he presses Abby's cell tighter to his ear, hoping she didn't hear it. "Dad…" he cuts in, beseeching in his thoughts for his father to pay attention to the warning tone of his voice for once, "I'll call you later, okay?"

"No rush, son, no rush…" Jackson's voice comes out crackling and booming this time and instinctively, he jerks the cell away from his ear, his sensitive hearing uncomfortable with the volume. Blasted technology! He must have pressed something somehow… "I know you're busy now. Even tomorrow will do…"

"Dad!" he firmly cuts in again before his father's voice gets too mocking to be overlooked. "You're on loud speaker now."

"Oh, am I?"

"Oh yes, you are!" Abby pitches in enthusiastically. "Your son is so incredible that he can change the volume and activate the loud speaker at the same time! And unlike the rest of the humanity, he doesn't even need fingers to press the buttons – just his ear. And it just proves the commonly known theory that he has super ears!"

The said speaker crackles slightly with his father's laughter flowing from it and while he doesn't exactly appreciate being ganged up on, he lets it go… for now. Right now he'd rather be mocked by two people who mean no harm than having his dad blabber out something that should not be said. So he joins too, though his input can be categorized at best as a dry and ironic snicker rather than the honest, full blown guffaw that apparently comes so easily to those two on the phone. But later… later, he will give his dad a piece of his mind – again – about what he is allowed to talk to Abby about and how. If Jackson has not understood up by now how good Abby is at reading between the lines, he will need to have it laid out in black and white.

"Alright, these old bones here need some rest. But unlike me, the night is still young…" Jackson plows on suggestively, confirming his worries and cementing his intent. Yeah, looks like the warning about the appropriate content of any chats with Abby will need to be carved into a wooden plank and hung in some visible place in his dad's house. Or, more like _planks_ , in several places all around the place, as his dad tends to walk around whilst on the phone. "So you two enjoy yourselves!"

"We'll try!" he utters as Abby eagerly joins in with, "We will!", and he can't help but steal a glance at her at their respective responses. Where he feels slightly uncomfortable, Abby looks like she _is_ enjoying herself. And when he finally disconnects the call, deliberately drawing her attention to his thumb that presses the button, she is still all smiles.

"Spoilsport!" she accuses, "Using your ear would have been much cooler!"

He glares at her but she knows better than to take it seriously.

"Okay, okay, I'll be good now. I _do_ want that present from you," she declares and he is glad for their conversation going in this direction. The last thing he would like is to deflect her questions if she chose to comment on his dad's words.

Out of the three packages still stashed in his worn leather backpack, he fishes out the largest one. "All that rush on Saturday and I left it behind…" he explains briefly. "Hope you like it."

As she opens the present, he watches her, not wanting to miss a thing. There is a difference in how she's doing it now; where Jackson's gift had been opened with a barely restrained impatience, his is being revealed slower, with more gentleness to her movements. 'Reverently' comes to his mind and he shakes his head at the ridiculousness of this thought. It must be his brain, he reckons, over-stimulated by two extra strong coffees consumed in less than an hour, on an empty stomach at that.

He shakes his head again. It will pass.

Just like the light growling of the said stomach, which he simply ignores.

With the wrap finally out of the way, Abby opens the black cardboard box and he hears her breathing cease momentarily at the sight of what's inside.

"Gibbs!" he is glad to hear the awe in her voice, "How did you know that I was _thinking_ of getting a monster themed chess set? I haven't told anyone… No, wait, forget I asked – it's ESP again, you always know… Oh my God, they are amazing!" He just watches in silence, pleased, as she takes the chess figures one by one out of the box, admiring in awe the scary faces of the Dragon-Knights and then, the gargoyles that act as Pawns. "Where did you find them? I've dug through like, seven dimensions of the web and I've seen a lot but nothing like it… Oh, would you look at the Queen's wings! She looks like a bat! And she even has the…"

She falls silent the instant she turns the black figure to see its front and he lets her draw her own conclusions. And if her sudden silence wasn't enough as a clue, the complete stillness of her body is. She already guessed where this set came from. Just like he hope she would.

"Gibbs…" her voice trembles slightly as she speaks, "They… they're not from the store, are they?"

He shrugs indifferently, although what is now happening to his insides is quite the opposite of indifference. "Wood was."

They sit in silence and though he doesn't ask, he wishes he knew what thoughts are swirling in her head as she fingers the face of the Queen. This was the figurine he had spent the most hours on, making sure he got every angle just right. He had used Kate's old caricature of Abby as reference and he believes he had given it justice; the face, despite the demonic fangs bared at the world, has some sweet mischief to it, too, and the likeness of the features is definitely there. The way Abby is touching it, he thinks she can see it too.

"Gibbs…" he can just about hear as her voice is now barely above the whisper, "I… have no words."

"That's new."

She shoots him a look then but her expression almost immediately softens again. Placing the chess set on the coffee table, she keeps only the Bat Queen in her hand. "How do I even… I could hug you for that like, for the rest of the evening…"

' _Works for me,'_ it crosses his mind but he immediately cuts that train of thought. "Abs, it's just chess…"

"…but even that won't be enough," Abby either didn't hear his words or, if she did, she ignored them. It's the instinct and the years of experience that tell him to reach behind and brace himself on the back of the sofa, and rightly so – because in the next second, he has his arms full of her. But her hug isn't what he'd expected: fast and having an impact of a mini freight train. It _is_ strong, like every time the emotions get the better of her but it's at the same time soft, too. And it feels good, so good that his arms find their way around her all on their own.

Like always.

And then, Abby shifts a bit. "Definitely doesn't feel like enough."

The warmth on his ear. It's his skin that registers it as first; his brain names the source of that warmth with a little delay. The very second it does, there is more of it. "Thank you!" she whispers and again, the delicate huff of her breath washes hotly over his skin. He can't help but close his eyes at the sensation. "They are just incredible!"

And then she shifts once more and as he feels her lips on his cheek, it is as if fire ignited, first just warming, then burning the tips of his ears. It slowly spreads downwards and he does all in his power to will his body not to show what her kiss has done to him. And his always obedient body complies. Almost. His breathing is fully under control, naturally, but his hands aren't, tightening around her and drawing her so close to his body that she almost melts into him. And his heart… he can only hope that his thick coat is enough to muffle its speeding beat.

Damn… why does she have to feel so good in his arms?

He knows he has to do something – before these thoughts and these sensations overrule his will and he forgets himself. He can't afford doing anything stupid. "I thank you too," he murmurs. Apparently, his voice cannot be trusted either.

"Me?" Abby's quiet question caresses his ear again. "For what?"

' _For being you. For not turning your back on me when you found out about Hernandez, even if you had every right to. Because, Abs, if you did… the world with you looking at me with disappointment and disgust would've been a really shitty place…'_

The words that swirl in his mind never reach his lips though. Instead, he lifts his left hand and shakes it. And Abby, alerted by the sound of metal jingling against metal, turns her face towards it. "Gibbs!" she half gasps, half laughs, "You're wearing it!"

"Isn't that what it's for?"

"I… just didn't think you really would…"

"I like it," he interrupts her. Now that she has let go of him and moved back, her attention on his wrist, he can trust his voice again. He rotates the paracord bracelet alongside the orange strap of his watch, making the large dog tag visible. "Rule 9.2. it is!"

"No," she drawls with disbelief and just as much as he likes the gift from her, he also likes how her eyes shine with pure joy when the understanding dawns on her. "You're serious?"

"It's a good rule," he nods, confirming. "And if something's good… why not?"

Chuckling, Abby reaches for their beverages and offers his mug to him. "Cheers to 'why not?'" she lifts hers up and he follows suit. As their coffee mugs meet with a clink, she smiles at him and he could swear that this smile of hers could melt all the snow outside her building, should they decide to step out. "I can't believe I get to be the maker of one of the famous Gibbs' rules! I have to mark the day! You know that this is like another present for me, right?"

It's easy to return the smile when she is like that. An innocently joyful Abby is much easier to deal with than a soft and delicate Abby. A delicate and soft Abby, as rarely as she resurfaces, is a true challenge for him. During those moments, her sensuality comes out in waves at him, even if she doesn't realize it. It is something that has become harder and harder for him to resist – and resist, he still must. He wishes he was free to follow his father's stubbornly repeated advice and 'just have a go at it'. But he isn't. Not with all those years under his belt. Not with all his baggage. Not with the things he'd done. His father simply doesn't know the half of it.

Not to mention the fact of one of the best friendship of his life being put at stake if he _did_ take that step – and the risk of losing it if his advances weren't welcome. Abby just doesn't see him this way. They're friends – close friends, yeah – but just friends.

"But this one is just… No, even 'awesome' doesn't cover it fully," once more, Abby picks the chess figure up to inspect it again. "Oh but listen – it's saying something! _'I need to be christened!'_ she rasps menacingly, her voice completely un-Abby for a moment. "Fancy a game?"

"Another time, Abs?" There is a quick flash of disappointment in her eyes as he declines the proposition. He doesn't like disappointing Abby but deep down he feels it's the right thing to do. Here, unlike at work, the boundaries are somehow less clear, easier to ignore. It's a temptation. This is why he has been dropping by less and less in the last couple of years, his last visit being last May, when he and Darren had gone over the protective detail on Abby. Tonight, he had acted on impulse, both missing her and wanting to check on her but staying for much longer is not wise. He found out what he had wanted, delivered what he wanted, time to retreat. Hit and run had always been his favored style. "I'm straight from the road," he explains.

"Yeah, I know," Abby doesn't look like she's going to argue. "I'll hold you to your word though."

"Okay," he agrees and puts down his now empty mug. It is when he reaches to tie his backpack, when he remembers. "One more thing," he pulls out the item he almost forgot about. "For your niece."

From Abby's face, he can tell that this is something she had not anticipated at all. "What…? But Gibbs… you didn't have to! She isn't even…"

He interrupts her with a raise of his hand. "I wanted to," he insists. "Just a little toy. And dad sends some of his candy."

The look Abby gives him as she accepts the two small, colorful packages speaks volumes. "Handmade and homemade, huh?" she guesses and he confirms. "Classic Gibbs. Or, should I say, _Gibbses._ Both impossibly cute, Senior _and_ Junior. Thank you!" she hugs him once more, but this time he doesn't get to reciprocate; she moves away just as quickly as she leaned in. "I'm sure she'll love it…"

"Welcome," he cuts it short and to keep his hands busy, gets back to tying his backpack. He wouldn't have minded to give the gifts in person but it's rather obvious that the little one isn't present here at the moment. He doesn't think Abby would be playing any music at this time if she had a child of such tender age under her roof, even if her niece is partially deaf. "Where are they, anyway? Luca changed his mind and decided on the hotel?"

"No, no need for a hotel."

He doesn't look up at Abby's reply; he does so though when the movement next to him draws his attention. He watches her as she gets up and walks away to her large computer station, once more forcing himself to focus when his eyes begin to trace the contours of her body and waits patiently as she deposits the packages on the desk. Her family, originally intended to be hosted at her place, has to be staying somewhere and he is actually quite curious about their alternate lodging arrangements.

But when he finally gets the explanation, it throws him off a bit.

"Cancelled?" in an utter surprise, he mirrors Abby's reply. When they last spoke, he was left with an impression that all of her Christmas plans were going smoothly. And upon his arrival tonight, nothing in Abby's behavior indicated that something had gone wrong. "What happened?"

The concise, "His work happened." surprises him even more. Things do indeed happen in life, things that can mess up the most carefully prepared schedule, but he really would have been less surprised by the flight being affected by the snowstorm than by Luca Sciuto cancelling his visit because of work. He knows Abby's brother as a textbook family guy, someone who just wouldn't do something like that to his sister.

"So… you were alone for Christmas?"

"Alone? No," Abby smiles at him lightly. "I joined as a last minute volunteer at Sister Rosita's shelter. And on Christmas Day, at Children's Medical Center. So I actually had more people around me than I could count!"

Well, for that, he is glad. But it's not quite the same. It can't be. Not to Abby, to whom Christmas with family means the world. He knows the feeling; it used to matter to him just as much, a long, long time ago – something that he has been, till only recently, repressing for years, as it was too painful to even think about. "Good you had somewhere to be," he comments, "but why didn't you tell me anything earlier?"

"Because it was Christmas, Gibbs," Abby shrugs dismissingly, leaning against the edge of her desk. No further explanation is forthcoming and it takes his rather insistent stare for her to roll her eyes and elaborate, "I didn't want to bother you."

Bother? That, she would never be – not to anyone they both know and most definitely not to him. "Abs…" he admonishes gently. She should know better. " _Bother_?"

"Well, yeah! It was _Christmas time_ , Gibbs, with your _dad_ , the most important person in your life! The last thing you needed was that time being spoilt by some non-emergency phone calls. It couldn't be helped anyway."

What he feels upon hearing her words is a mix of emotions. He feels touched by her thoughtfulness… and disappointed, too. If only he'd known… "Wrong, Abs. You wouldn't have spoilt anything," There is more to what he thinks but it's his second nature to bite his tongue and carefully weigh the words before he voices them. Because, yeah, his dad _is_ important in his life – but he's not the only one. "And it _could've_ been helped, you know?" he carries on when he is sure what to say, "If I knew, I would've simply told you to come up to Stillwater."

And once more, he watches Abby looking shocked. That makes three, in the span of just one short evening.

"To… Stillwater."

"Yeah," he confirms. Then, as Abby continues to just stare at him, it occurs to him that perhaps he such an invite wouldn't have been as appealing to her as he imagines. "Far from perfect, I know. Not the same as Luca's visit… and far. But yeah."

"But you don't do Christmas with coworkers…" There is a note of incredulousness in her voice. It's understandable; indeed, he doesn't. An offer like this – it's utterly unlike him. Until last year, the only family style celebration he allowed himself to be talked into was the team's Thanksgiving at Ducky's. Christmas though – never. Not even for Abby.

But things do change.

He just shrugs, settling for a silent, meaningful look, hoping she will understand what he can't bring himself to say out loud. An invite like this – it wouldn't have been for just anyone. Abby is an exception to many things in his life.

And it looks like she does understand. The smile she gives him isn't the wide, sunny smile that needs just an instant to brighten her features when she is amused or just cheerful. Her smile is slow, delicate, slightly crooked and mused. "Thanks, Gibbs," she tells him quietly, "It means _a lot_ to know that such an offer would've been on the table. And just so you know – I would have gone even if Stillwater was thrice as far."

So, it would have been appealing. Good to know.

And just as he is ready to tell her that, he is stopped by a sudden and a rather aggressive rumble of his neglected stomach. He both feels it and hears it – and Abby's single downward glance tells him that she's heard it too.

"Speaking of things on the table, I see that it should have been more than just a coffee," she tells him and then, gives him a look that means business. The hint of melancholy and something more that he didn't have the time to decipher is gone now. "Why didn't you say you were hungry?"

"Wasn't," he lies. He was but to him, it really is nothing. It's not the first time he goes on ignoring the hunger and focusing on the other matters instead. "I'd better go then."

"Yeah, you'd better – to the refrigerator, right over there," Abby's thumb shows him the direction, as if he needed it, "and choose whatever you fancy."

"Abs, it's okay," he protests. "I'll eat when I get home."

"Gibbs, this one, you will _not_ win. Not with me. And you very well know it," Abby gives him the business look again and pushes herself away from her desk. "Not when I know that you're straight from the road and have, as I assume, only canned food at home. And besides… my mom had always said that dismissing the guests of the house whilst they're still hungry is a shame upon the household," she informs him matter-of-factly and he almost rolls his eyes at the tone of her voice. "I second her. I'm already at fault for not offering anything right away. Don't make me feel guiltier than I already do, please."

There are some things _no one_ had ever won with Abby – and amongst them, are her hospitality rules. No one would have _ever_ pegged a Goth girl she is for a hostess material and yet… And when she starts quoting her mother' savoir vivre rules... _'Women,'_ he groans internally. It's almost as if he heard his own mother, Ann, lecturing him. _'Deep down they're all about feeding the hungry…'_ Abby is right though – he _really_ won't win this one. And to be honest with himself, he doesn't really feel like wanting to win. He really does have only canned food at home. It's a valid enough reason to stay longer.

At least this is what he tells himself.

"Fine," he grumbles. "What d'ya got?"

"That's the right words," Abby flashes him a quick smile and leads him to her open plan kitchen. Her refrigerator, unlike the one at his place, is large – and filled with food. Amongst the various dairy products, fresh fruits and veg, he spots several air tight containers that hold something that looks promisingly substantial. "Red beans and rice, a bit of fish stew, chicken and sausage gumbo," Abby names his choices, "There is also green salad with some sliced turkey."

Spotting the said, _very_ green salad and disregarding it in the very same instant, he focuses on the other three. Fish stew doesn't sound too bad, rice with beans is something he would never decline but the meat in the gumbo is the winner card.

"Just a little heads up, Gibbs. I made it hot," Abby warns as he pulls out the chosen container. As the food's spiciness is non-issue to him, he merely proceeds towards the cooker – only to be shooed away. "All you get to do for now is to take your coat off. You eat that – you _will_ get hot."

"Make me another coffee then," he quips but follows Abby's request anyway. "It'll keep me cool."

"Very funny. White wine or beer? I have Pinot Gris. And from beers, Grand Reserve and also, this year's special, Bayou Teche Bière Ale."

"Reserve would do," he chooses. He sits down – and then, he realizes something. "Abs… Gotta wash my hands."

"Of course."

He knows the layout of Abby's apartment like he knows his own house – has known for years, ever since she had moved to D.C. But when he enters the room, his right hand instinctively flying in a direction of the light switch and finding just the cool, flat surface of the wall, he has a moment of an odd feeling that maybe he somehow opened the wrong door. But it _is_ the right door, which he makes sure about by stepping out. It is the light switch that is in a different place, outside the door. When he flicks it, a soft light floods the bathroom – and he stands there, taking in the changes.

Gone is the bathroom the way he'd always known it; the black painted walls with all its crazy decorations, the rickety cubicle of the shower, the mismatched toilet and sink and a cabinet, all cramped up into the very limited space of the small bathroom. Instead, his eyes roam along the finely tiled walls, all stony grey, pausing momentarily at the virgin white bathtub and the sink fitted in a marble countertop, and ending on the large mirror embedded in, as he checks, a wrought iron frame which intricate design makes it look more delicate and lighter than it undeniably is. And no more the impersonal, bright ceiling lighting; everything is softly but well lit by the colorful, stained glass lanterns that hang from the walls. Altogether, everything looks simple and solid but undeniably elegant.

The amateur designer in him is impressed with the idea.

The handyman in him wants to check the improvements up closer.

The investigator in him wants to know when and how, and how much.

The man in him that is Abby's friend bristles slightly at the fact that he hadn't known about these improvements till now and questions _why._

The bladder in him overrides it all – for now, at least.

When he comes back to the table, it's all ready. The table, previously empty, is all laid out, including a set of silver wear wrapped in a Christmas themed napkin and a shapely glass full of light golden ale. The few minutes he was gone was apparently enough – and when he steals a peek over the counter, it looks like the food is not that far either from being done. Wanting to help out, he enters the kitchen area – only to be shooed away again and redirected back to the dining table.

"Step two – get yourself comfortable. Step three, start on your drink! It won't be long, I promise."

Indeed, it doesn't take long; only half of his beer is gone when Abby brings the tray filled with bowls. As she sets it in front of him, the combined aroma of rice, meat, Cajun spices and garlic bread – apparently, _baked –_ hits his nostrils and crumbles all the defenses he thought he had. But it's only when he takes the first spoonful, when he realizes two things: just _how_ hungry he really is and just how tasty this food is; only the gumbo's temperature stops him from tucking in in earnest.

"This is good," he motions at the food in front of him. A few other, more adequate adjectives come to his mind when it comes to describing in full the mouthwatering flavor of the dish but he was never one to talk excessively. " _Real_ good, Abs."

Abby was never one to be bothered much by his exiguous. "Glad to hear that. Enjoy!" she beams briefly at him, and before he can stop her, she's back in the kitchen and judging by the sounds that come from there, busy with something again. He gives her a moment but when it becomes clear that she does not intend to join him anytime soon, he just gets up. Without bothering to ask what keeps her so long, he strides into the kitchen and unceremoniously takes the tea towel and dish she's been wiping out off her hands.

"Didn't your momma teach you about the lady's place?" he asks when she protests.

"But Gibbs!" Abby doesn't even try to hide her eye roll. "First of all, I'm not a la…"

"It's with her guests, not in the kitchen," he cuts her off firmly. Not willing to waste another word on the matter, he just leads her out to the dining area, his arm on the small of her back easily winning with her initial resistance. Once she's seated, he gets her another table matt, a glass from the cupboard and a second beer from the fridge. When he rejoins her at the table and pours the content of the bottle into the glass, Abby watches him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity written on her face.

"Second of all, I thought you would prefer eating in peace and quiet…"

"You thought wrong," he says and simply gets back to his food again. He does usually eat dinners alone – that's what he's used to – but it does not mean he likes it or that he wouldn't like to change it, if he had a chance. And Abby is definitely amongst those few people he truly enjoys sharing meals with. "Tell me more about your Christmas with Sister Rosita," he asks after a couple of bites. "How is she? Kept you busy?"

"Oh, you can say that again," Abby chuckles in response. "You know her – running around as if on jet fuel and micromanaging everything."

"Oh yeah," he agrees. "Reminds me of someone I know."

"Of course she does! She's reminds you of you. You run around checking every single detail, operating on coffee so strong that it could as well fuel a jet."

Surprised by the jibe, he shoots her a mocking glare, which only makes Abby smile wider. "The person I was thinking of has long, black hair, green eyes," he counters, his gaze automatically landing on each feature as he names it. _'Some really pretty green eyes…'_ "Wears black… most of the time…" he stares pointedly at Abby's blue tunic, trying not to linger around the neck opening area, "and runs on fuel so strong that would make any jet choke."

Abby chuckles again, amused. "And do you know what the scary part is? Sister Rosita does it all _without_ any Caf-Pow! in her system. Imagine her if she finally gave in and accepted one from me!"

"I'd rather not," he protests. "Even a Mini-Pow! and one could get dancing eyes just from watching her movements."

At the joke, Abby laughs openly and it takes her a moment to fully calm down. After his gentle prodding, she goes back to her story about her evening spent on serving the community. He lets her tell it all, in all details she feels like adding. Allow Abby's natural ability to talk to run free and one just cannot get bored. All he has to do is to listen. It's not the Yard, where they have to hurry through everything to get the job done as fast as they possibly can. At the Yard, there is rarely time for long, detailed stories about one's whereabouts or delicious meals enjoyed at a leisurely pace.

"And how are things at the convent?" he prods further at some point. "Any repair work needed?"

"Nothing major. Only the regular computer de-bugging… and maybe fixing a loose socket here or there. No biggie. One visit after work should suffice."

"Good to hear everything's holding up," he comments. "Speaking of which… Saw your bathroom. Looks good!"

"Thanks," Abby smiles, visibly pleased. "It was high time anyway."

"You've been saying that for years," he reminds her. "What pushed ya?"

"Aside from the need for a change? A pipe that decided that the bathroom wall was not yet moist enough," at his raised eyebrows, Abby good naturedly rolls her eyes. "A leak, Gibbs."

"Yeah, I got that," he grumbles. "Why didn't you say? Could've helped."

"Because it just wasn't a big deal, really… And anyway, I can't run to you with every little thing that needs fixing."

"Yeah, you _can_ ," he stresses out. To emphasize his words, he puts his cutlery down and steadily meets her gaze. Fixing things for people close to him is something he just does, it's one of his ways to show that he cares. "Fixing's what I do, Abs."

"Gibbs… Aborigines in South Australia know that you like fixing things," Abby quips and he smiles lightly. "But it takes to be a friend to know when you are just too busy to be bothered with some DIY requests."

And here it is, again. He studies her briefly, not even trying to hide it, pondering at her words, still slightly upset that she had not told him at the time and hadn't sought his help. Just when had he been 'too busy to be _bothered_ '? "So…" he decides to try another angle, "how did you get from fixing a pipe to a total makeover?"

"Well, you know how it is when you touch one broken thing and three other get revealed in the process?" Abby chuckles into her drink. "You try to replace one leaking pipe and you find out that the entire plumbing needs changing. The plumber gets busy with that and you notice that the wiring is also on its last breath… And then, being me when I'm bored, you get carried away and think, 'tiles would look good' and 'I wanna finally have a bathtub' – and you end up changing everything."

"Not a big deal, huh?" he sums up. "Looks like I missed a lot of fun."

"You have _two_ bathrooms, Gibbs," Abby fires back, smiling mischievously, "That's a double the fun you can have in there."

His imagination, surprisingly unruly tonight, suddenly supplies him with _other_ ideas of fun one can have in the bathroom and he gives himself a mental head slap before it gets too far ahead. He reaches for his ale, grateful for its cool. "My bathrooms are just fine, Abs," he grunts.

"That's what I kept telling myself about mine. And admit it; both your bathrooms could do with a little design upgrade… I could help you with that if you let me. There are plenty of catalogues that can help your bathroom achieve the Ritz-Carlton look," she suggests and it's his turn to roll his eyes at her insistence. "I also offer my services in doing any wiring that needs replacing…"

He wants to protest firmer but her last words give him a pause. The plumbing in his house is probably okay… but the wiring? It hasn't been touched for years… decades actually… and not just in the bathrooms. It would be worth looking into. And with the amount of work required, it would mean days. Days of work, with no rush… And maybe the bathroom would indeed do with a little more than just a lick of fresh paint…

He keeps silent for little bit too long and to Abby, it's enough to draw her own conclusion. "I hear the first rumble of the crumbling defenses..." she teases. "C'mon Gibbs! I'm right and you know it, I can help you and that, you know too. Just say when and I'll be there."

He forces himself to shake off the mental image of himself side by side with Abby, working together on improving his house. _'Stop deluding yourself_ ,' he berates himself. Deep down, he knows well that it's not really about any house improvements as much as having a really good excuse for having Abby in close proximity, just to himself and for days on end. Who would he redecorate for, anyway? Aside from him, there's hardly anyone ever using either bathroom and he doesn't need much. The bathtub, even if it's more than a bit old, still works just fine, same for the toilet and the sink, and the small mirror above it has served well enough so far, so it will some more. The simple, military style suits his needs just fine.

"Abs, like I said…"

"I will be convincing you till you give in, Gibbs," Abby cuts in, smoothly ignoring his protest, "I give you till May. Best to do it during the summer months. Trust me. Everything settles and dries in no time."

Not that he is gonna go for it but still, he can't help but to give her the 'no kidding!' look. Like he needed to be told that most of the renovations were best done in the…

 _Summer?_

It would make sense. The bathroom no longer has the specific smell of the building work very recently done. Such a smell lingers only for the first few weeks.

He _had_ been too busy then.

And she _had_ been bored.

If so, he _does_ have the right to be ticked off. As a friend that had not been asked for help, yeah, a bit – but that's personal. First and foremost, he has a reason to be pissed as the special agent in charge of everyone's safety, who had not been informed of something important.

"That when you did yours?" he baits, keeping his voice light.

"Yeah," Abby confirms and he feels his hackles rising. "Come to think of it, I'm lucky. Not lucky, that the pipe burst, not like that, but glad that it happened then and not now, in the middle of the winter. Now, _that_ would have been a big… 'uh-oh!'… Right? Imagine, fourteen Fahrenheit outside, no water, nothing dries properly… It did happen in many places all across D.C over the weekend. Anyway, enough about pipes and DIY. How about you finally tell me what you got up to with your dad? Maybe over another beer? Because I'm running on fumes," Abby shakes her empty glass and without waiting for him to reply, leaves for the kitchen. Disregarding the rest of his meal, he follows.

"Why wasn't I told?"

It's impossible to misinterpret the demanding tone of his voice and yet, she tries. "I knew you'd want a refill!" she calls over her shoulder. "Same?"

"Abby!" he warns. He loves her and that makes him more tolerant of her than others but not always. Not when it comes to orders that had been disobeyed, apparently. "Do I need to call Darren and ask why he omitted something like that?"

"Gibbs…" Abby turns to him fully and, to her credit, she looks absolutely serious, all traces of teasing completely gone from her large, focused eyes, "I meant it when I said you were too busy..."

"…to be _bothered_?!" he snaps. "Major works like that means outsiders going in and out. That's a possible breach in security!"

"And it was under control… C'mon, seriously?" he loses another bit of his patience as she moves back to the dining area, almost snapping again at her as he sees her reaching for her phone on the table. But it isn't as he thinks, to buy a moment of distraction; the display screen is flashing, indicating the incoming call and through the music that flows from the speaker, he can hear yet another, familiar tune that stops the second she answers. One name and he knows the caller. The way she speaks tells him the rest.

Not a social call.

The rest of the conversation is just a formality but he listens, storing the partial information away and allowing the jargon used to help him snap back into a work mode.

"Tony said his calls were going straight to your voicemail," Abby explains as she ends the conversation but he merely narrows his eyes, already having already worked it out. With his phone's battery dead, it's a small surprise.

"Where?"

"I guess it's pointless to remark that you were meant to be off till tomorrow?" Abby comments, already heading for her desk. He is just one step behind her as she writes something on a slip of paper and waits impatiently with an outstretched hand as she turns to him. "Address. Two bodies."

He nods. 'Thanks' doesn't really suit the situation where you acknowledge the info about a crime scene.

He hastily throws his coat back on when Abby stops him.

"Gibbs…" her voice is quiet but decisive. "Plug this in the cigarette lighter in your car. You can charge your phone a bit on your way there."

The repressed anger almost makes him decline. But the common sense wins. He _will_ need his cell for his duty. In a quick movement, he accepts the cable Abby is offering to him.

"Thanks," the word leaves his mouth naturally, _despite_ the anger. That, he can and should be grateful for, even if it's a small thing. But that's Abby. Always ever so good at micromanaging.

With a heaviness of an unfinished conversation hanging between them, he leaves. It's not over yet.

But work first.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	10. Chapter 10

**DISCLAIMER**

 **I DO NOT OWN ANY RIGHTS TO ANY OF THE NCIS CHARACTERS. I ONLY BORROW THEM TO PLAY WITH THEM FOR A BIT.**

 **.**

 **Hello everyone!**

 **Sorry for the delay – what can I say, life. It gets so busy sometimes that you don't know when weeks and even months pass… I'm sure many of you can relate ;)**

 **Thank you all for all your comments and messages – they keep me going and make my day, each and single one of them! Big hugs to you all!**

 **Oh, and (belatedly) Merry Christmas and (soon) Happy New Year to you all too!**

 **Without any further ado, let us move onward with this story...**

 **.**

 **CHAPTER 10**

To an average person's imagination, a morgue is a place of complete seclusion from the rest of the world, gloomy, disgusting and scary in its absolute silence. And it's true but only to some extent. To those who are too sensitive, the view of bodies being dissected might certainly prove too much. This is why a place like this just _has_ to be away from other people's daily routes. But those who expect to see some sort of butchery in the place of the dead can often be surprised by the surgically cold precision of the procedure and while the autopsy room is indeed sometimes silent, it is only outside of working hours. And never utterly, even during a total blackout; the emergency generator allows the cooler drawers to continue their work no matter what, thanks to which their soft humming never stops. At such times, the spotlessly clean room resembles nothing more but a spacious chiller. And during working hours, two male voices easily override that hum, from time to time interrupted by this or that and any other persons who pop in for one reason or another.

Such visits become much less frequent though during the first couple of hours of any given investigation; whilst the autopsy is being performed, the room is restricted to the authorized personnel only and those usually aren't many. And even those few would usually have to have a valid reason to call on. This is why when the hiss of the pneumatic door announces someone's arrival merely minutes into the procedure, it causes the Medical Examiner to promptly look up from above the cadaver.

He merely manages to pause his voice recorder and say his greetings when their visitor is already next to them, the light blue medical scrubs swishing dryly against the white lab coat with every decisive step. "Hey, guys! Ducky, may I take some photos?" the question, muffled slightly by a surgical mask, makes him sigh. Like many professionals with a lifelong experience of working either solo or being solely in charge, he likes his work being performed on his own terms, at his own pace – and that means right away and with no stopping once it's started.

"Whatever is the rush, my dear? We're almost done with the external examination, you would have gotten our photos soon enough," he points out patiently.

"I know, Ducky! But that's not the only thing what I need. You see, McGee already sent me some crime scene photos and while I was flipping through them, something about them got me thinking. I need just a few shots but they have to be quite specific. And the sooner, the better, time is key. Allow me just one minute, please, and I will be out of your hair, I promise."

"Oh well, if it's just one minute… I guess _that_ we can survive, won't we, Mr. Palmer?" with a glance on his wrist watch, he shuffles away from the mortuary table, motioning at his assistant to do the same. He knows well that the promised 'one minute' is just a phrase, that Abby chasing some newly hatching theory of hers means Abby quite likely losing track of time – but what wouldn't you do to assist your fellow scientists in performing their duties? She has done the same favour for him many times over. Such is their work.

Having his permission, his colleague from the lab upstairs jumps to it and he, not for the first time, can't help but note how her body movements turn from slightly agitated to calm and collected the very second she gets to work around the cadavers. The shots, though taken at odd angles, are nevertheless methodical, done with a nearly military efficiency. It's not something one would normally see in a young woman who is renowned for her exuberance and often excessive gesticulation.

"Also, Ducky… I'd need the shot of their irises. But only if it's okay to lift their eyelids?"

"Well, we are done with the facial assessment so yes, but may I ask what this is for?"

"You've seen John Doe's hands when McGee fingerprinted him, right?"

"Yes, he had no doubt suffered a rather severe burn to both palms in the past. The flesh is long healed but not without some scarring. Timothy couldn't get a match on his portable AFIS scanner," he replies. "I suppose you didn't have any luck either?"

"No and that's why I'm trying another angle. Fingers crossed," the reply he gets carries a note of hopefulness.

"Well, if that's the case, naturally, do whatever you think might help! Go ahead, I will hold them for you," he offers his assistance, knowing that the said body parts had already stiffened due to rigor mortis setting in. To his surprise, Abby lets her small digital camera hang on its strap and retrieves yet another device from one of the pockets of her lab coat. Recognizing the type of a scanner, he raises his eyebrows but he nevertheless refrains from asking verbally. Now he understands why Abby mentioned time being a key factor. The longer she would wait, the worse the condition of the already drying eyes would have become.

With his help, it takes only a moment for the task to be completed. And, to the contrary of what he's been bracing himself for, the session doesn't stretch. Once the scanning is finished, Abby simply steps away from the slab. "Done!" she announces, a single bleep of the scanner's 'off' button confirming that the device is no longer needed. "Thank you, Ducky!"

"You're most welcome," mildly surprised, he can't help but to check the time again. "One minute, exactly," he comments. "A mere coincidence or…?"

"Oh, Ducky… what do we all know about coincidences?"

"It is known that the mere uttering of the word would result in a significant eye roll in a certain person, followed immediately by a terrifying sound of clenching jaws. Luckily, said person is yet to return from the scene, so I might yet get away with my crime, if you don't tell," he comments lightly and as a reply, Abby zips her forefinger and thumb across her mask covered lips and twists them in a locking motion. "Did you time yourself?"

"Yeah. Our private ninja taught me a little trick."

"Interesting. Should we expect _you_ to become the agency's second ninja?" he jokes again.

"Ducky, really? The only thing I have in common with ninja is that I also wear black."

"Oh, it's not the black that makes the ninja, my dear," he comments as Jimmy snickers good-naturedly behind his back. "It's a common misconception, actually. That famous black costume with a facial mask was in fact originally worn by puppeteers in ningyo joruri and stagehands in kabuki theaters, for the sole purpose of not attracting any attention from the audience. Only later, this color associated with mystery, it was also a choice of the kabuki actors who _played_ the enigmatic ninja. But in truth, if you really _were_ one, would your secret mission stay secret if you roamed the country side all dressed in rather atypical clothes, mask on your face? No, no, no – you would stick out like a very sore thumb, raising suspicion!The real ninja, or as they then called it, _shinobi,_ went about dressed in whatever was best for the occasion, as monks, peasants, merchants, travelling actors, musicians, even women…"

"Oh, like Tony!" Jimmy's exclamation interrupts his story and makes him turn around and stare at his beaming assistant. "Like when he pretended to be a street musician or… or that time when he went undercover as a drag queen!"

"Palmer!" He doesn't have to even turn to Abby to know that she is annoyed. "Haven't you learnt yet that the class just does not interrupt during the lecture? But while you're at it, correction – It's not Tony that is our ninja, I was speaking of Ziva. Correction number two – Tony never went undercover as a drag queen. I would have known of something this epic."

"Oh well… maybe you would have known about it, and more, if you were his personal Autopsy Gremlin," the nearly childish pride is so evident in Jimmy's voice that he can't help but roll his eyes at his assistant's antics. Pride is rarely the best guide… "I'm like a… sounding board to him! Or, as he puts it, 'an underground well he can tell his little secrets…"

"A well indeed you are, Mr. Palmer; one with a delayed echo," he finally manages to interject. "Abigail,' he turns, "as shamefully intrigued I am about our Anthony's thus far undisclosed outfit, I'm afraid I have to ask you to postpone our inquiries till we finish."

" _Our?_ " Abby doesn't miss a bit.

"I take it upon myself to make sure that the star witness doesn't leave town," he promises honestly.

"I'm all in, _Professor Duckman_ ," Abby winks at him from above her blue mask and he reciprocates. When he glances at his assistant, he can't help but smirk briefly at Jimmy's slightly panicked facial expression.

With the camera back in her hand, Abby is half way to the exit when she stops once more. "I almost forgot!" she calls out. "Two things. One – once you get to his hands, could you please let me know how and roughly when he had himself burnt? There's a chance that an injury like that had been treated at the hospital somewhere…"

"…and knowing the approximate time would narrow down your search," he guesses where she is going with this. "Consider it done. And the second?"

Abby simply reaches into the other pocket of her lab coat, which bulges visibly. Digging the item out, she dangles it in her fingers and if he is to judge the contents by the shiny cover, the bag is likely to hold some Christmas sweets. "Not work related. For your break, guys," she explains. "Let me know if the flavor is to your liking and if it at all goes with your tea."

"I certainly will, my dear. Would you please leave it in the drawer of my desk?" he raises his contaminated hands as a form of explanation. With a tiny salute and a swish of her scrubs, Abby is off to fulfill his request and by the time she leaves the Autopsy, he is fully back to his task.

It's very human to feel curious upon seeing another's interest in a rather unusual object and he certainly isn't any exception. Though occupied with the procedure, he can't help but glance every now and then towards the victims' faces, his gaze unfailingly landing on their closed eyes.

"Are you… thinking of it too, Dr. Mallard?" Jimmy's voice is wary as he cuts into his musings. "About the photos and scans Abby took, I mean."

Not entirely surprised that his assistant has picked up on his shifts of attention – it comes with years of tuning to one another, after all – he ceases momentarily his poking in the bullet holes. "Well, one can't help being curious, Mr. Palmer," he replies. "Eyes are interesting things indeed. Not only are they, as people claim, the window to one's soul. They also, as any ophthalmologist would tell you, offer a glimpse into one's health. And they might reveal a lot more still, if we only ask the right question."

"And what is the right question?"

' _Is insistence also contagious?'_ he asks himself. It's natural for a human being to be curious upon seeing another's interest but the insistence in pressing for the answers is another matter altogether. It must be the influence of the nature of their jobs though – pushing each other for results – that causes everyone to question everything at any given time. But it's a good thing in the end.

"It depends on a case, Mr. Palmer," he replies with a practiced patience. And then, seeing no reason to deny himself no longer, he leans in to once more lift the eye lids of the deceased, helping himself with the blunt end of one of his still sterile scalpels. After checking the Lance Corporal's, he swivels around and does the same with the other male victim. "Hmm… let's see…" he ponders aloud, all the while analyzing the look of the victims' irises. At this stage, with the corneas already opaque, even his experienced eye can't see much aside from the barely visible eye color. For more, they will have to rely on Abby's beloved gadgets – whatever it is she is working on. "For nor, Mr. Palmer, the only question I can think of is, 'Dear chaps, did Mother Nature play roulette with the two of you?'"

When he looks up, puzzlement in his assistant's eyes is evident.

"And the answer to this is…?"

"That, Mr. Palmer, is for _Abby_ to work out," he announces firmly. There is time for everything. Time for curiosity over – they have their work to do. He gets hold of the forceps he had left protruding from the bullet wound and gets back to business. "Specimen jar, please."

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

Busy uploading the photos taken in Autopsy, she doesn't even bother looking at the large plasma screen on the lab's wall. It's not that the continued flicking of the fingerprint search would distract her – it's simply pointless. When – or rather, _if –_ either the AFIS* or the CDE* find the match, she will get a notification. But as the chances for that happening are getting slimmer with every passing minute, she zeroes her entire focus on her other tasks. They need to be done before the team is back. Their return means boxes of evidence and the victims' car to be processed in the garage. Between that and whatever samples Ducky will send her this time, she will be busier than a bee in a beehive, with no time to spare for extra searches.

It doesn't progress without some hick-ups though. Her computer – out of all times – decides to throw one of its temper tantrums, and it's a lag that is rather significant. The fingerprint searches are still up and running but her photo editing programs slow down almost to a sleep. When no amount of grumbling or sweet-talking into to working faster helps, she quickly starts up the diagnostics, including the anti-virus scans, just in case.

"Hey, what's up with you? My evening has already been spoiled enough so you really, _really_ don't need to add to that… C'mon, talk to your momma, what's bothering you?" she beseeches when nothing malicious is detected, "Dust bunnies tickle you? Consider them gone, I'll get to it ASAP, promise. Or maybe you are struggling with all this junk on your drives? Is that it? Yeah, it is. I can remove some but only some. How is that? Better? See? I told you!" she huffs with a relief seeing the programs beginning to work a bit smoother and makes a mental note that more RAM is a must. "Better brace yourself and do your best! We have a full night of intense work ahead of us!"

A short while later, few things happen practically one after another. An email arrives; it's from Ducky and as she views it, he video-calls her to provide an additional input to the photos he's just sent. As she applies some of those details to her medical search, her lab phone rings, the LED light indicating that the incoming phone call is from the garage, and just as she expected, its crew informs her that the car is in and waiting. Going once more over certain details with Ducky, who's still online, she hears the quiet hum of the lift in the corridor. The bell only confirms that it's stopping at her floor.

"Getting busy there, Abigail?"

"Like a beehive, Ducky, and it's just a start. Gotta go. Thank you for the info!"

Ending the vid-call, she doesn't have to even turn to know who has arrived; the bickering that is audible the second the door slid open is enough for her to know that it's Tony and Ziva. And their visit can only mean evidence.

And boy, it isn't just one box of it. Each of her friends carries two each; oh, she _will_ have her hands and brain occupied indeed.

Ziva greets her warmly, leaves her cargo and immediately heads back upstairs, leaving Tony behind but there's nothing unusual about it. Only one of them is needed for signing the evidence log and Ziva is too dutiful to loiter around when there's plenty to do in the bullpen. From above the evidence log, she notices Tony's gaze lingering after his exiting partner and she smirks. His eyes are just where they are expected to be and it's definitely _way_ below Ziva's neatly braided hair. But then again, who would blame DiNozzo for being DiNozzo? Heck – one doesn't even have to be necessarily a man to appreciate a butt like _that_. Ogling doesn't hurt anyone.

But then, when Ziva is already gone and Tony's gaze still lingers where she disappeared inside the lift, his facial expression wipes the smile of amusement of her face. It might be nothing, it could be for a wholly different reason than what is in her head but her instinct tells her otherwise. There are only a few reasons a man could look at a woman with longing. _'Tony, no, not again…'_ she sighs silently. _'I thought you were finally over her…'_

As Tony catches on and gets hold of himself, she promptly looks down at the log, not wanting him to know that she has noticed anything. And, when she looks up again after a moment and sees the DiNozzo grin firmly in place, her heart clenches a little for her friend. The difference between the playful bickering of her friends as they entered, Tony's suddenly serious face when he thought he wasn't observed by anybody and his big grin just now is just too striking to mean nothing.

"Hey, I saw that Santa Abby left some snacks on our desks," he tells her as she finishes with the log. "I was sent flying down here before I could even have a peek inside. What did you make? Gingerbread?"

"Tony, if I made gingerbread every Christmas, it would be boring. And I'd hate to be boring," she explains honestly. "This year, it's spiced pecan nuts."

"Oh yeah!" Tony pumps the air lightly. "Thanks, Abby! I _love_ nuts!"

"Maybe because you _are_ nuts? Fornell calls you DiNutso for a reason, you know?" she teases in a way they usually jab at each other. Opening the containers he had brought in with Ziva, she finds two duffel bags; one with the characteristic USMC printed on it and the other very much civilian, made out of studded leather, a wallet, a phone and some items one can only consider as car litter, each one bagged and tagged. She places them all on the bench, prioritizing mentally. "And speaking of… You're not the only one in the bullpen who loves nuts, so no sneaking into anybody else's bags, capisce*?"

"Why would you think that I'd do something so awful?"

"Because I _know_ you," buying none of his acted innocence, she narrows her eyes at him playfully. "If you try anything, I _will_ know and then, I will give you a beauty treatment you will never forget."

"Yeah? And what would that be?"

"Nose piercing, done with my bluntest plastic tongs."

Tony only snorts lightly at her threat ad she turns her attention back to the evidence.

"So, all-nighter again, huh? What plans did you have to ditch this time?"

At the sudden change of a topic, she freezes for a split of a second. "Nothing special. I was just chilling after being out all day," she plays it down, describing the part of the evening that she feels like talking about. "What about you?"

"Ah, nothing special," Tony shrugs dismissively but she can see right through him. He clearly wants to tell her something and he will. "The show at The Kennedy Center was practically over anyway."

"Nah, nothing special, only one tiny and ever so humble _Kennedy Center of Performing Arts,"_ she mocks in a friendly manner as she checks the leather duffel. But aside from some clothes and a few books, the bag contains no hidden wallet nor any name tags she was hoping for so she leaves it aside for now. "Who is the girl who made you go to the _opera_?"

" _He_ would be rather displeased to be called a girl," Tony explains, "You know him better as Mr. D. And it was a gala, not opera."

That's not quite what she expected to hear. "Your dad? Wow, _this_ is where he took you? Impressive! Was it good?" she asks and smiles when Tony confirms eagerly. "You have to tell me everything!"

"Bring yourself and some good take out over to mine and I'll tell you all you wanna know."

"Done and done," she agrees, her smile growing genuinely happy. Tony wouldn't be so open and willing to talk if things with his dad had gone sour. She just wishes him with all her heart that it isn't just a one off on his dad's end. Tony deserves better than that.

Digging her gloved hands into the USMC duffel bag, she considers the possibilities. Chilling over meals means having that little bit of extra time they normally don't get at work. His dad and how things are going – that's one thing she will for sure ask about. And then, there is another topic that she feels like needs to be covered. If there is something he is struggling with, a quiet, private chat is always a better opportunity to get it out of him. And _if_ he admits it – then maybe it's time to talk to Ziva again and try to hammer some sense into her pretty but stubborn head. Or perhaps… "Hey, you know what I'm thinking? We haven't had any proper get together in a long while. Feel like hosting a team movie night?"

If Tony's face, suddenly lit up like the National Christmas Tree, is anything to go by, she has just spoken the right key words. "You, Miss Sciuto, have really good ideas sometimes," Tony points his finger at her and she smiles right back at him, glad he agreed so easily. "I'll later find a moment to corner everyone from the hit list to establish the date and time."

"Cool!" she acknowledges. "Now, about establishing a few other things…"

A bell of the lift interrupts her, announcing yet another arrival for the lab and as they both look towards the door, they are being greeted by the sight of a stack of plastic containers, tall enough to fully cover the entire upper part of the body and the face of the person who carries it. But the bottom of this someone's outfit is enough for them to guess anyway. "Abby? Please tell me there is nothing on the floor?" Jimmy's voice calls out, funnily distorted by the plastic as he walks in blindly. "I don't want to trip over…"

"No, nothing but let me help you with this stuff," she offers, placing the combat uniform she's begun assessing onto the bench but Tony stops her with a gesture of his hand. Walking towards Ducky's assistant, he stops him gently in his tracks, grabbing the top two of the four containers and taking them steadily off his hands.

"Oh, thanks so much, Abby…" Jimmy falters the second he realizes where the help came from.

"Mr. Palmer, it appears to me that you are in dire need of wiping your glasses," Tony's mannerism resembles so eerily the one of Ducky, it's uncanny. Placing the containers securely on the evidence bench, he drops the act and grins cheekily in his own style, "Do I look like Abby to you?"

Jimmy stammers, his next few words becoming incoherent, his gaze flicking rapidly between Tony and her, and she, perplexed at first, suddenly realizes that his nervousness could be because of his big mouth earlier on it the Autopsy. "Hey, Tony… maybe you can first corner Mister Jimster here," she suggests innocently. It's about the movie night, of course, but Palmer doesn't know it yet. "He makes the hit list, right?"

"Autopsy Gremlin? Of course he makes the list!" Tony unknowingly plays right into her little prank. "What do you say, Palmer? The 'A-team get together', my place, ASAP… What's your answer?"

"Erm… s…s-orry… plans!" Jimmy finally manages to find his voice and nervously deposits the rest of his cargo onto the evidence bench. "Abby… could you sign?"

She does, holding back a slight smirk and the second it is done, Jimmy practically bolts for the exit.

"Hey, Gremlin, what's the rush?" Tony calls out but it does nothing to stop Jimmy. "What was _that_ about?"

"He is just being Palmer?" she suggests. "Autopsy Gremlins are species known to be very… you know. Skittish."

"'Skittish' is one word you can use," Tony snorts loudly, amused. "He looked like he was about to jump out of those rubber sole shoes of his! I know Boss can scare the crap out of him with just a single glance – but me?"

She smirks openly, making a mental note to call the Autopsy in a few minutes and explain to Palmer that he had been played into believing that Tony already knows about the undercover slip up. Having a little fun by letting Jimmy stew for a bit is one thing but the last thing she would want is to have Palmer's nervousness to affect his work performance.

Time for _real_ fun will be once they finish and will be free to mess around.

"Speaking of which…" she changes the subject, "You'd better go back upstairs before somebody finds you here and makes _you_ jump out of your shoes. But first, since you were in charge of the crime scene tonight, brief me in about your finds, as briefly as you can. Go!"

Tony does and she soaks the info in, building up the picture of the scene in her mind, like she's done a thousand times before. His explanations, combined with the few photos she had received earlier on from McGee's upload, help her put some of the pieces of the puzzle together, giving her some ideas on the 'how' question. 'Who' and 'why' will come later.

"Got it," she thanks when Tony is done. "But now, don't get me wrong but shoo! I have heaps to do."

Tony doesn't leave though, his eyes on the bench that is almost overflowing with the delivered evidence. "You need someone to help you."

"Nah, you guys have your own work to do," she waves it off. Eight containers don't leave much space to work freely so she begins to move them over onto the lower section of the bench. "Maybe once I pull the prints I might grant McGee the phone to play with but for now I'm cool…"

"No, I don't mean McGee. I mean someone to help you on regular basis. You know… a real assistant, like Ducky has Palmer."

"Nice, Tony, that's a good attempt at winding me up, I'll give you that," she laughs off Tony's insistence. Everyone knows her stance on having an assistant and how easy it is to tease her on the subject. "But now seriously, shoo! And don't you go around repeating all that out loud! Joke or not – it might give some people the wrong idea."

"Give some people the wrong idea about what?"

Her head whips towards the door at the sound and she almost drops the last of the containers from between her fingers. "Gibbs!" she chides, hoping that she sounds lighthearted enough. "You're doing the sneaking in thing again!"

"And successfully, apparently! What's wrong with your radar, Abs?"

She scoffs at Tony's remark but to herself, she can't help thinking that it's actually a damn good question. And another thought that occurs to her, much more ridiculous than the first one, is that it's a good thing she had laced her Martens tightly earlier on. Otherwise, it might have been actually _her_ jumping out of her shoes, quite literally.

One inexpressive glance at her and the box in her hands and then, the attention is on Tony. "DiNozzo," the demand is calm but unwavering. "Why are you _still_ not upstairs?"

"Gibbs, _I_ held him back, okay?" she explains, not wanting Tony to get in any trouble because of her. "He just finished briefing me in and was about to head up."

"And this can give people the wrong idea _how_?"

"Not me going upstairs, Boss. Abby just doesn't want me to go around telling people that she needs an assistant."

With an eye roll at Tony's willingness to spill it all, she simply gets back to her evidence. She tried but here is only so much one can do to cover for another without digging an even deeper hole.

"But she does. Think about it, Boss!" Tony continues to insist, surprisingly, and she, once more bent over the content of the emptied duffel bag, only shakes her head. She is the one known to ramble but Tony too, could actually learn a thing or two about quitting while he is still ahead. The joke about the assistant for her is already old. "She has boxes of evidence to go through, an entire car to process and she can only be in one place at a time. I'm thinking if she had someone to do the basics for her, she could focus straight away on the big stuff. This way, it would have been faster, maybe. Not to mention, it isn't just our team she does the results for."

Somewhere between the fourth 'she' and 'faster', she gets the feeling that Tony's rambling might not be actually rambling. In his face, when she looks up, she finds none of the uneasiness she expected to see, no unsure smile that is usually present when Tony gets semi-intimidated. His expression is open, solemn and he locks gazes with Gibbs with certainty which only one's faith in one's words can give.

He looks like he actually _means_ it.

What's worse – Gibbs looks like he is _listening_.

" _She_ is here and can speak for herself. And _she_ says 'no, thank you'," she interjects lightly, trying to laugh it off. "Gibbs... Should I test Tony for whatever he's been drinking tonight? He is babbling something about my work _efficiency_."

Finally, she has his full attention. Gibbs' face still expresses absolutely nothing but the attention is a good thing.

"What d'ya got?"

"Thank you," she straightens up quickly and presses her gloved hand to her heart. Okay, so maybe the frosty air at the scene didn't do much in cooling his anger from earlier on like she had hoped but at least on _that,_ on the assistant subject, he will always have her back. How could she doubt it? He _always_ had."Not much on the evidence yet, since I only just got it. But, I have been working on the crime scene photos. Come, take a look."

At her request, they both follow her to her computer station. As they take the positions they usually do at first – Gibbs right behind her right shoulder and Tony a little behind him – a wave of mixed fragrances invades her nostrils, making her head spin and her insides melt a little. _'When the heck did he use_ _ **that**_ _?'_ she bemoans to herself, her eyes closing involuntarily. When Gibbs was at her place less than two hours ago, he smelt of pine forests, snow, wind, the ever present sawdust, coffee, sweat and, ever so faintly, gasoline. He smelt of…well, himself. Fantastically – but of himself, something she has had enough years to get used to and react to with a reasonable calm. Now though, with that previous scent still detectable, he smells also of something else, something she had yet to develop any defenses against – of that _cologne_ , her newest Achilles heel that she never bargained for, something she was sure could ultimately be the damnation of her self-control. _'Judging by the intensity – no longer than ten minutes ago,"_ her brain replies to her rhetorical question, somehow without her will and God one knows what for. It's not like this knowledge is going to help her…

"Abby. Today?"

With a wince, she comes back to reality, realizing that she's been standing as if rooted to the spot, hand immobile on her wireless mouse. "Sorry… just got a little dizzy."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I… erm… I think I straightened up too fast. It's okay, just need a second…" she waves off Gibbs' concern, not wanting him to step any closer than he already is. Since the Secret Santa gift exchange, she's been working _really_ hard to hide what effect that cursed cologne has on her, at times even _inventing_ something to do right across the room, just to keep a safe distance but no such luck now; she has to stay where she is. And breathing him like this, from so close that she also feels the warmth that radiates off him, is a torture. A sweet one – but torture nonetheless. A torture because this fragrance is simply outright _tempting_ – to do something she is not allowed to, consequences be damned.

With a long, steadying breath – through her mouth – and a firm shake of her head, she focuses on the content of her monitor. "Okay, here we go!" she says. Two quick clicks of the mouse and the collapsed slide viewer come back to life, revealing the photo she had left open when Ducky called. And then, a simplest of solutions occurs to her. She has to stay here, in front of her monitor but they… "Guys, I have quite a few of these, some with details. You will see them better on the plasma."

When they take upon her offer, Gibbs predictably first, she slowly breathes out with relief.

"Behold 1970 Ford Mustang fastback," she begins. "Impressively restored, updated here and there, this red, three-door beauty is registered to Lance Corporal Niall Peters and it has been in his possession for a year now. According to this photo, Peters was found dead on the ground outside of the driver's side. The blood smudges and the bloodied hand prints on the concrete indicate that after being shot in the chest, abdomen and the right thigh, he fell and tried to crawl towards the rear of the car, right up to here," she views the second photo and points the cursor to the large, circular pool of blood. "Ducky mentioned one more shot – this time to the back, point blank, from a _very_ close distance so this is what probably stopped him. How close the shooter was each time, I'll know once I test Peters' coat for gunpowder residue…"

"Abby… something I _don't_ know yet?"

"Just a click away," she pacifies. Switching to the next image, she zooms in a little. "Now, moving on to our John Doe, the only other occupier of the car. Found in the back seat, slumped over the folded driver's seat, which you guys established, as Tony told me, as an attempt to get out before he was shot. Now, what's wrong with this picture?"

"What do you mean?" Tony turns to her, frowning. "That's where he was shot, the blood splatter confirms it! Cut and dry!"

"Correct. And yet!" she zooms out, showing the entire photo. "Forget about the blood for a second. What _else_ do you see?"

When they both look at the image in silence, silence that stretches for long enough for her to know that they _don't,_ in fact, see what she's noticed, she just carries on, wanting to lead quickly where she wants, "Tony, I'll use you as a guinea pig here, okay? You're riding this fine vintage car with McGee and he is driving…"

"Like hell I'd let him drive _this_ baby!" Tony interrupts her with a snort. "He'd be lucky if I let him be McPassenger…"

The smack to the back of his head is barely there, almost a pat compared to the other times, but it's enough to have him backpedal and fast, "….although now I've just remembered that I had an eye examination and my pupils are too dilated to drive safely," he corrects himself without even taking another breath. "McGee has the wheel. What do I do?"

"Your height and your body built is a match to John Doe's. I need you to think like him so, please imagine yourself being a passenger in that back seat, enjoying the ride. Are you _comfortable_?"

Tony only snorts again at her question. "Comfortable in the back of the Mustang with my height? Right," he comments and then, gets more serious. "Why would I go for the back seat anyway? McGee is McChauffering me around but he is my buddy, not McCab driver! Why would I squeeze in the back and leave the perfectly adjustable shotgun empty…"

He trails off suddenly, the realization probably finally dawning on him but Gibbs is faster to voice what she's been aiming for.

"There was another passenger in that car."

"Another person? Yes. Passenger? Well…" she flips back to the previous photo, the one showing the entire side profile of the Mustang. "Tony, let's carry on. We can always go to the garage and check it for sure but do you think you can for now mentally squeeze your 6'2'' into the front passenger seat as you see it on screen?"

Tony steps closer to the plasma, positioning himself sideways and taking a long moment maneuvering his right arm as if trying to place it on the virtual arm rest on the door and then, compare it to the rest of his body. "I think so," he finally says. "Plenty of legroom, too."

"Now, the same but in the driver's seat."

This time, it takes him only a couple of seconds. "Only if my knees are right under my chin."

"And our Corporal, according to his file, was even taller than you and John Doe, by two inches. Are we sure no one moved the driver's seat before you guys arrived?"

"Metro was there first and secured the area. They even took some photos before we took over. I've seen them. Everything was exactly like you see on our shots."

"Then whoever sat in that seat was a lot shorter that Peters. And I intend to find all the traces of that missing driver!" she promises. "Where are you going?" she asks as Gibbs turns to leave, Tony hot on his heels. "There is more!"

As they both stop by her, she redirects them back to the plasma. Returning to his spot in front of it, Gibbs impatiently snaps his phone open. "McGee, what are onto right now?" he demands and as he listens, she focuses on her monitor, switching between the programs. "Okay, leave it for a sec. I want you to see if there were any street cameras nearby. There might have been a third person in that car. We need to confirm."

Her photo editing program opens up just as he snaps the phone shut. "No solid ID on John Doe yet but I do have _something_. Tell me what you see."

"Abby…"

The impatience in Gibbs' voice is unmistakable but she ignores it. "Just one question away, Gibbs!" she insists, motioning at the postmortem head shots of both victims. "Tony, you have a go. Both of them."

"Alright," Tony complies. "Lance Corporal Peters – muscular built, dark skin, dark Marine style cut hair, eyes probably also dark, since he is of African-American background. An old, thin scar in his left eyebrow. Now, John Doe – also fit but not as bulky, fair skin, lightly freckled, long, dark blond hair… A tattooed arrow in his left eyebrow, an earring in his right ear. Looks like a fan of rock. And?"

"All correct. You see the similarities?"

"Similarities? Abs, these are two _completely_ different people!"

"That's because you are allowing the color to distract you," she points out. "Look now."

She applies the first of the prepared filters, turning both aligned photos to black and white. Despite their impatience, Tony and Gibbs stand still as they observe the effect of her work on the plasma, but their stillness lasts only until she begins to mess around with the victims' skin tone.

"What did you just do?" Gibbs demands. "Is it the ProMorphing thingy again? The one for messing with people's faces?"

" _MorphPro_ , Gibbs, and no, you have my word that I only played with the input and output levels for the skin. I mean, a mere darkening and brightening," she adds quickly, knowing that neither of the men is likely to know the little inner secrets of photo editing. "Notice the ruler on the left side of the program? I used it to precisely measure the zygomatic arches of their faces. Observe the result," she activates the hidden layer, allowing all the lines of the digital ruler to be seen wherever she had placed them. "Can you see now? Take away the color and their faces are an almost _exact_ match, front and side, both in the bone structure, as well as in the adipose depots. Though, I didn't go too deeply into that last one, there was no time to play with the X-Ray. I did, however, look deeply into their eyes," she opens another of the prepared presentations. "I used both the iris recognition camera and retinal scanner and while there are obviously some differences, there is something they have in common, look," pointing the cursor to the detail she had noticed in each left eye, she highlights it on both photos. "As you can see, the outlined spots don't have the exact same shape but they are in a precisely same location, just outside of the pupil, four o'clock. Last step – let me add their eye color."

She enables the last layer and the effect is instantaneous. The two sets of eyes, so far displayed in a little spooky mix of black, luminous grey and white, suddenly come to life, drawing a small gasp from both Gibbs and Tony.

"Abby, are you sure this is Peters' eye color?" Tony asks disbelievingly.

"Yup. Just look into his file and you'll see. Greyish-green, just like John Doe's. Maybe it's a shade or two darker but still, a bit unusual, huh? And considering the brown spot they both have in the left eye, the nearly identical bone structure, I think they were more than just good buddies…"

"Related."

Of course Gibbs will be the one to cut down to the chase.

"Highly likely. Though it could be also just a coincidence but we all know how we should feel about these! Although there have been cases of people accidentally meeting their clones that came from a different racial background…" she adds, trailing off when she notices the look Gibbs gives her. Okay, so tonight at work is _not_ a good time for any extra fun facts. The Gibbs that she had spent such a nice evening with, the well-rested Gibbs that was relaxed to the point of being openly teasing and _almost_ talkative is gone now. _'Sticking to business it is,'_ she tells herself. "Whether they are related and how close, the DNA will tell us," she continues on topic, "but for now I think you can try asking the Corporal's relatives if they perhaps recognize our John Doe."

"We will," Gibbs' declaration is thrown over his shoulder as he once more strides for the exit. "Let me know when you have more."

"I'm letting you know _now_ ," she stops them once again in their tracks. "I know McGee is on the financial record but I too, might have a detail to add to Peters' last twenty four hours."

As they come over, as she motions them, to the evidence bench, she stands on the other side of it and lifts one of the garments she had been giving an initial assessment before Gibbs came in. "Out of the three utility uniforms I found in Peters' duffel, this blouse was additionally packed in a plastic shopping bag," she announces. "It's wet, smells very faintly of bleach but in overall, it has a distinct and surprisingly nice smell of something tropical. Now, what's wrong with _this_ picture?"

"And what's wrong with the laundry smelling of something tropical?"

"Nothing, Tony, unless you're talking Marine clothes," she replies and turns with another question on her lips. "Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs!" she calls to attention, bracing herself for either another warning or for another silent stare, "would you like to do the honors and take it from here to lecture our former Agent Afloat here about a proper uniform care?"

And the stare she does get, but to her small relief, there is also a twitch of the right corner of Gibbs' lips. A lightning fast and disappearing as if it was never there but not fast enough for her to miss it.

Amusement. Tightly reigned in, but still, there.

Despite his growing impatience.

Good.

"Jungle or desert, you're supposed to blend in and that's what combat uniforms are for. But it's not just the camouflaging pattern. Its colors and the fabric itself are designed to have reduced visibility in the ultraviolet and infrared spectrum. Most regular detergents, including bleach, defeat that purpose. They contain optical brighteners, which absorb ultraviolet and reflect back blue light. Use them and in the night vision gear you shine like neon. Also, camouflaging isn't just becoming invisible. If you use a strongly fragranced detergent, an animal or a person might smell you – and there goes your mission," he explains and as Tony listens, she allows herself a smile. She expected maybe a few terse words at best but those somehow turned into actual, complex sentences. That's not what Gibbs is known for, oh no – especially when his impatience pokes him to run everything on fifth gear. "Another thing is protection. The uniforms are flame retardant and treated with permethrin to repel insects. Coat them with the civilian fabric softeners and these qualities are gone. You are vulnerable to bites and your uniform is actually flammable."

"Okay, I get it, the civilian detergents are very dangerous," Tony acknowledges, "But what does it tell us? That Peters was apparently crap at doing his laundry?"

"No. Every recruit at boot camp gets his ass whipped in doing it right," Gibbs replies to Tony before she can. "There might have been someone else with him who did it. Abby, was all his stuff washed the same way?"

"All I can say for now is that the rest seems to be dry and the smell suggests that it hasn't seen the laundry room for days. As for the brighteners, easy peasy. Tony, hit the main lights, would you please?" she requests and as her friend does so, she runs to her office to retrieve one of her portable UV lamps. When she brings it to the main lab and shines the light over the uniforms that are laid across the bench, no further comment is necessary; amongst other, typically brownish garments the moist blouse glows very much like white shirts of the night clubs' guests when DJ turns UV spotlights on. "So, the stain must have been special. No, wait, there is one more I need to check!" she remembers suddenly and moves over to the containers she had received from Ducky. One flash over the uniform Ducky took off from the deceased's body and she knows. "Negatory also for the uniform Peters had on when he was killed."

The second she says it out loud, it is as if the proverbial missing piece of the puzzle clicked with a snap into place and she freezes. "Tony, you said you talked to Norfolk, right? What did they tell you?"

"Not much. Peters just returned from his deployment and according to his NCO, he was positively buzzed that he will be able to make it for Christmas with his relatives. He got off the ship at 1400hours, signed off his car from Base Long-Term Parking at 1415hours and it was the last time they saw him there."

She digests it rapidly. "And thirty hours later he gets killed," she turns from Tony and looks suggestively at Gibbs, " _still_ in his cammies."

She needs not to add anything else; it is obvious in Gibbs' suddenly widening eyes that he too, caught on what should have been obvious to them from the start. Without a word, once again he yanks his cell phone off his belt and speed dials. "McGee, how far did you say you got with the financial record?" he asks and as he walks away towards her open office to listen, she focuses back on the evidence, knowing that this train is already on the right track.

"Okay, I know you two are on the same frequency but not everyone is good at that ESP of yours," Tony mutters once they are alone in the main lab. "Help me out in here and tell me what I have missed just now?"

"Cammies, Tony," she replies just as quietly. "They are not allowed to be worn when on leave. The only time you are permitted is in your vehicle on your way home or back to base. At the time of his death, he should have been long since changed into his civilian clothes."

"But he didn't change," Tony muses, his face giving away his concentration as he ponders. "So, are we thinking he didn't _get_ to go home to change or that he just loved his uniform that much? Okay, okay, forget I said it," he raises his hands in mock defense when she shoots him a look. "But then again, for whatever reason he didn't go home, why didn't he change anyway? There was a bag with some spare clothes on the back seat; he could have changed even in the car…"

"Have you seen its content?"

"Not really, no. It started snowing really heavily again and we didn't want to expose any of the evidence to the elements."

"Good call," she admits. Folding the unwashed uniforms away for later, she leaves only the ruined blouse to have it examined – right after the blood samples and the slugs Ducky had sent via Jimmy. "Well, _I_ have seen it. I mean, only briefly but look," she pulls the leather duffel closer and pulls out a few random garments. "The style of clothes is pretty much consistent with what John Doe was wearing. I think it belonged to him."

"Alright, that would make sense. But still, it leaves us with the question, 'where have you been last night, Marine?'"

"Days Inn Hotel," Gibbs' firm voice supplies from the open door to her office. "I want all they have on him, down to his signature."

And again, her brain feels as if something clicked inside it with a loud snap. "Signature," she repeats almost absentmindedly and with a renewed energy, she pulls the rest of the clothes onto the bench, aiming to get to the very bottom of the duffel. "Please be signed, please be signed…" she chants.

"Abby…"

"Books, Gibbs," she explains hastily. "People often sign their own books, even leave the address. Maybe John Doe did, too…"

Her hopes, however, are quickly dimminished as she flips through the pages. None of the first three books has any handwritten name on it. She checks the fourth one only to be thorough – and with this one, hope returns.

"And it's not only people who sign their books," she announces triumphantly, showing the title page that bears a sticker with a bar code and a vivid red stamp. "Libraries do it too. And to become a member of a library…"

"…you need to show an ID," Gibbs cuts in, finishing her sentence. "Abs, which one is it? We can go there first thing in the morning."

"Gibbs, you are forgetting what day it is," she reminds him on her way to her computer. "Most of libraries are closed till the 28th. And this one…"

One closer look at the library's stamp makes her slow down to a stop. No, no need to check the Christmas opening times for this particular one _…_

"Well, this one _will_ be open in a few hours."

"You know this library?"

"Yeah, it's one of those I'm signed with. I can check it out for you. I know the librarian in charge there so I can probably do it with just one phone call and spare you the drive."

"Name."

She glances over her shoulder, not remotely surprised that he would want to know. He _always_ wants to know everything. But it's okay. And maybe it is even better that she won't have to be the one to deal with it. Not that she would want anyone to know why.

"Stewart," she reveals and watches Gibbs scribe it in one of his ever-present mini notepads. "Daniel Stewart."

"Daniel?"

Tony's unexpected interjection bewilders her. "Yeah, that's his name. Why?"

"That Daniel? Is that him? _Your_ librarian Daniel?" he emphasizes and it is then, she suddenly gets the meaning behind his question. Like footage played back sped up, she recalls the last Saturday's evening at Tony's and one of her little secrets he had interrogated out of her... "The one who proposed to you?"

So much for rescuing the situation in time… "Tony!" she berates, trying to express all her disappointment and upset in just one look. That just has to do, for she is _not_ saying another word about it, not now… maybe later, when she will get a moment to corner him somewhere without any witnesses. For now, she satisfies herself with a vision of herself, using her sawing machine to tattoo Tony's ears… "The case… if you _please_?"

Turning away from her big mouthed friend, she focuses on Gibbs and business. "The library opens at 9:30am. I will send you an-email with the address…"

An open notepad being handed to her firmly is a clear enough indicator that no such action will be needed. She accepts it with an outstretched hand, not wanting to step too near, in case the fragrance of the cologne overwhelms her again and scribbles the address below Daniel's name, idly marveling at how deeply it is embedded in the paper in comparison to the words written by her.

But that's just probably Gibbs' heavy hand, nothing more.

"I'll call when I have something more."

She gets no reply, just a short nod of acknowledgement. No other words either and moments later, she is alone in the lab, feeling weirdly dismissed.

"Right," she says out loud when not even the hum of the elevator disrupts the silence of the lab, "We need some lively music. Don't we, Major Mass?"

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

Hours later, hours she measured only by the amount of work done, she certainly does have more. She has so much, in fact, that she feels it it's easier to simply go up to the bullpen and show the team the results on her I-Pad rather than simply call. And so she does, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, to shake off at least a little of the tiredness that threatens to consume her and at least _appear_ awake. Opening the double door that leads to the Squad Room, she is immediately surrounded by its usual ambiance. The day has already started, people already going on about their business.

Heading to meet the team, she notices only Tony's head, bowed dutifully over his paperwork. "Hey Tony," she calls as she walks along the bullpen's divider, "Where is everyone? I have some results for you…"

"Hey, Abby," something in his body language alerts her and she slows as she finally walks into the bullpen. His suggestive gaze motions her to look at Gibbs' desk and the view of the woman comfortably seated in Gibbs' chair raises her hackles and wipes her tiredness away faster than any Caf-Pow! ever had.

"Hello Miss Sciuto," the voice that greets her is just as smooth as the measured, perfected smile, that damn, permanent fixture on that flawlessly beautiful face.

And there she was, thinking that this woman was the stuff of the past!

"Miss Hart."

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

*1 AFIS - Automated Fingerprint Identification System

*2 CDE - Crime Data Explorer

*3 Capisce – (It.) Understood?


	11. Chapter 11

**_Hi guys,_**

 ** _To everyone who R &R – a big hug and an ever bigger 'thank you', for sticking with me! Sorry for the delay. I did not have much time to write recently (exams). All behind me now… till the next time, that is._**

 ** _When I first started this story, I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted to write about. But as it often happens in the writer's world, the well-known characters begin at some point breathing on their own, thinking for themselves, feeling for themselves, acting as they please, saying things I had no clue they would… and that results in those tiny additional details sprouting out of the main story arc that needs to be re-edited for the hundredth time!_**

 ** _So yeah, MAllison Hart is back and I swear – I have NOT planned it! She just appeared! Will she stay? I really don't know, she never shares her real agenda and she certainly did not share with me. What do you think? Will she? Should she? How would it affect the events? Let me know if you feel like it._**

 ** _DISCLAIMER:_**

 ** _I do not own the right to any of the NCIS characters. They all belong to CBS. I wish I did own them though…_**

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 **CHAPTER 11**

 _._

" _Miss Hart."_

At first, she just stands there, hands gripping the I-pad and sure she won't be able to say much else; any other visitor, even official, and she would have had no issues welcoming them – but _this_ woman...

Luckily for her, the surge of adrenaline that woke her body, also kicks starts her exhausted mind into action and remembering herself, she deliberately relaxes her stance. Hart shouldn't know just _how_ threatened she feels by this unexpected visit. "What a surprise."

"Yes, it has been a while, hasn't it? How have you been, Miss Sciuto?" the inquiry is so well polished that many would have easily believed it to be an expression of genuine curiosity. But with her adrenaline spiked mind, her senses suddenly feel razor-like sharp – and she can see right through the seemingly soft tones of the lawyer's voice. Taking a rapid mental inventory, she notes the measured smile, the cool of Hart's stare which has nothing to do with the icy-blue color of her eyes, and finally, the absolute lack of any motion to at least sit straight for the greeting.

Could she be truly honest, 'None of your flippin' business!'would have been her response. Too bad that with this visitor – especially with this visitor – she just _has to_ be polite. And she will be, even though she is so nervous and pissed that she feels tingles crawling up on the back of her neck. "All fine, thank you," she replies in a similarly smooth, bright tone, "And you?"

"As busy as I could ever wish to be as a professional," Hart leans back even more in Gibbs' swiveling chair, visibly very pleased with herself. "But speaking of busy, I see you are in a middle of something important. By all means, as you were and don't mind me at all."

' _Oh, I sooo_ _ **do**_ _,'_ she wants to scream. And not only does she mind this woman's unwelcome appearance here or the way she lounges in Gibbs' chair as if she belonged here and had the right to dismiss people back to their duties. _'As you were', with you here? Like hell I will!'_

No way would she ever share anything with Miss Busybody present and eavesdropping!

However pissed at being bossed around on her own turf, she doesn't let it show and turns slowly away, though not without making sure that woman in still her peripheral line of vision. "Tony," she requests, "when Gibbs is back, tell him to come down to the lab, please."

The tingling on the back of her neck intensifies as she speaks and suddenly, it occurs to her that it might be not _only_ from the tension and the anger. Something tells her to look in a direction of main elevators – and yup, her inner radar is _definitely_ more attuned to the surroundings when she is pissed.

In the time one could count maybe to seven, Gibbs is in the bullpen, his scrutinizing gaze sweeping quickly from her to Tony, back to her, and finally landing on their visitor. Hart notices him only after a moment, only when he reaches his desk. But when she finally does, her face, so far schooled into a mannequin-like perfection, brightens visibly, now expressing a _real_ interest. And in her, "Good morning!", only a complete ignorant wouldn't notice the change to her voice.

"Mornin'," Gibbs' tone is neutral. Even she, knowing him so well, can't tell what he might be thinking because his face gives away less than what a marble statue would. "What are you doing here, Alison?"

"Why, Jethro, waiting for you, of course," Hart's voice becomes almost a purr, something that just feels unfitting for such an early hour of the morning, not to mention in public. But it's like the said public, namely, she – and Tony too, it seemed – didn't even matter anymore. "I need to steal you for a minute."

' _Yeah, as if he would go anywhere right in the middle of –'_

She is proven wrong before she can even finish her inner snarling. Without another word, Gibbs motions the lawyer to exit his working corner. More though; he grabs his coat and his scarf – a rather clear indicator that he will be heading _outside._

"Gibbs," she calls after him, still not quite believing that she actually needs to, that he would really leave, right when she has something that might be the first breakthrough in their current case. Surely, he _must_ know that the I-pad isn't just something to keep her hands busy? "Some of the results came through."

He does stop but their gazes lock only for a fleeting moment. "Give everything to DiNozzo," sounds final, underscored by the decisive way he turns away from her to face Tony. "You'll brief me in with every detail when I get back."

' _But_ _ **you**_ _are the one who gets the results from me!"_ she almost says, biting her tongue last second. Even to her own, very nonobjective, inner ear it sounds whiny – and the last thing she would want. A child, she is not. "Okay," she agrees calmly. And unnecessarily – it's not like there is any alternative.

She watches their exit in silence, now free to follow her inner urge to grit her teeth. The view of Hart arm in arm with Gibbs, her hand casually around his elbow does nothing to ease that urge and she grits her teeth till her temples hurt.

When they've disappeared into the front elevator, she forces herself to look away and approaches Tony's desk. Personal feelings aside, she still has her job to carry on. But Tony's eyes are nowhere near her or her I-pad, or even the elevator for that matter. His head tilted backwards, he stares with keen interest at the ceiling.

"Tony."

"Just a second. Taking a necessary health and safety measure," Tony's voice is serious enough that one could take his words at face value – of course till his lips stretch in a classic DiNozzo smirk. "Just checking if no icicles are falling on my head."

"A _what_?"

"Oh well, you know… you and Miss Icy Hart _exchanged pleasantries_ in such a heartwarming way that the skylight started to freeze over," he explains. "But looks like I'm safe, it's all gone now, probably melted under your heated stare…"

And perhaps some of that heat remains in her stare because he stops talking the moment he finally lowers his gaze and looks at her. "Okay, okay," he loses his smirk. "Chill and don't kill. I'm much too young to die…"

"Why was she here?" she cuts short Tony's rather ill-timed attempts at teasing her. "Did she tell you anything?"

"Nope. Requested to talk to Gibbs only and that's what she was granted. Although, from what my eyes have just seen, and from my ears have heard, I suspect that whatever business she came here with might be the type for _Jethro's_ ears only."

And there is that. _Jethro._ Yeah, she picked up on it, too. Whatever happened to 'Mr. Gibbs', the honorific Hart had always insisted on using, deliberately, knowing that it riles him up? _Jethro?_ With Gibbs, the first name basis thing is still… well, a thing, reserved only for selected some and for all she knows, the list isn't very long.

"I'm only interested if she is involved in our investigation. I can't exactly say I fancy having her here snooping around again," she shrugs, trying to play it down. The thought of Hart apparently being on first name basis with Gibbs stings like hell but that's not something she can share.

"And you're not the only one, Abby, trust me," Tony assures. "As a man I have to say she's gorgeous to look at but as an agent? I'd say she's trouble."

"No kidding," she replies, agreeing wholeheartedly with Tony's statement. M-missing-punctuation-Allison Hart is exactly that. Trouble. Both on the professional ground – and to her, also on a private one. "But enough of her for now," she cuts the topic short before the discussion can take them too deep into the kinds of trouble Hart represents. Some of them Tony isn't aware of and it should stay this way. "What we need to trouble ourselves with, is our case."

"Agreed. Show me."

With no unauthorized ears around, she activates her I-pad and then, allows her findings to be displayed on the bullpen's plasma. "Okay, so I've put everything we have so far on Peters and his companions in chronological order. December 25th, fourteen hundred hours, Peters' clock-out. From his phone's call log I know that someone called him from an unregistered pre-paid at fourteen zero three. Immediately after that, he made nine calls, one right after another, each lasting thirty seconds or less. All numbers matched different hotels in Washington, which also shows on his browsing history. The ninth call was much longer and it matched 'Days Inn'. There, as we now know, he was lucky to get one of their cancelled doubles and booked it for two nights. He left the parking in Norfolk alone but in a hurry. At Days Inn, he checked in, as shown in the hotel's log, at seventeen zero five. That's a very impressive timing, considering the speed limit on Hampton Roads Beltway and the weather. Now, let me show you something on the hotel's security footage."

"Hold on, Abs, let me save your time. McGee covered hours of it from different cameras and already briefed us in. He said that Peters definitely arrived alone, went to his room alone and while his part of the corridor happened to be outside of range of the nearest camera, he was later seen again a few times in other places, _always_ alone. When he left the hotel last evening, he was also alone. So, wherever John Doe and that missing driver joined him, it must have happened after that and shortly before they were shot.

"And I went _over_ the security footage," she replies simply as the selected recording from the reception's ceiling camera begins to play mutely on screen. "The angle was good enough for me to lip read him. What you see now is him, asking the receptionist typical check-in questions – now, bear with me for a sec – about things like direction to his room, elevators, staircases, Christmas room service, etcetera, etcetera. His last one is about a photocopier, if they have one available for guests. See how she nods? He asks _where_ and she points over to the back room behind her. He thanks, exits and comes back…" she fast forwards till the Lance Corporal's return, "…about seven minutes later, this time carrying his duffel bag and a map. He is super nice with her, explains that he doesn't need the whole map copied, only sections that contain the exit on Hampton Roads Beltway in Norfolk and everything all the way to the Navy Base, adding that, I quote, _'But if you could_ _ **please**_ _enlarge it for me, miss, you'd be my official, life-saving Angel,'_ she voice-overs the words that soundlessly come from the Lance Corporal's moving mouth, _'I've never been there before but rumor has it that the Coordinating Officer there eats whoever is late, alive – and doesn't even spit out the bones.'_ "

"Okay, so the guy is buttering up that blonde receptionist. Smooth talk usually works wonders. And?" Tony snorts indelicately and she just waits him out, counting silently. It takes a couple of seconds before his face changes its expression in revelation. "Hey, wait, that's bull! Of course he _has_ been there before, he just drove from there! And his file lists the barracks as his quarters between deployments!"

"Yup. He'd lived there ever since his day one as E-1," she supplies. "Not to mention the perfectly functional navigator installed on his phone…"

"So, why copying the map? For someone else?"

Instead of replying to Tony's question, she just rewinds the recording a little. "I'm shutting up. You – watch again."

True to her words, she lets Tony watch in silence, only nodding to herself to every word of his mumbled commentary, "Nothing… another guest outside… nothing… whatever. Hey… why isn't she coming in? It's freezing! And why is she… Abs, hand me the I-pad!"

Still saying nothing, she simply fulfills Tony's demand. The preview on the plasma shows the recording being rewound and played once more, but having it seen a few times already, she chooses to watch Tony instead. Yup. His joker self temporarily aside, his face all of a sudden has all the markings of a dog that caught a sniff of a hidden bone. And when he finally pauses the recording with a muttered, "I'll be damned!", she knows that the former cop in him caught what was supposed to be caught.

"Somebody will be," she comments. "Like, maybe McGee, when Gibbs finds out that he missed something so obvious."

"Well, duh! His only defense is that he doesn't read lips like you. He couldn't have known that Peters lied–"

"No!" she cuts Tony short. "You didn't miss it, did you? Gibbs and Ziva too, would have seen pass all that map waving and notice something in the background that doesn't add up! You noticed and they would have had, too, that some girl is standing outside the foyer and doesn't attempt to enter for quite a bit, despite being inadequately dressed for the _frigging_ cold weather, that she is clearly observing the front desk and enters _only_ once the receptionist had stepped out to the back room! Even I noticed and I haven't slept since like, nevermind. So, what's McGee's excuse? Our Mr. Data Whisperer can hack in wherever he wants but he doesn't notice a girl?"

"Okaaay, Little Lady Sunshine, I will head slap him myself, I promise – just chill your heated glare a degree. Or two… or… three. Pretty please?" Tony raises his eyebrows at her, the shock at her sudden outburst clear on his face, and that does cool her a bit. But just a bit. "I take it she makes a match somewhere?"

"Nah, she is Miss Irrelevant and I'm just rambling because I have nothing better to do!" she replies sarcastically and then exhales heavily to let out at least a bit of the steam. No point taking out her frustration on others. Not to mention, not fair… "Sorry for that. Okay, so she is actually the only one that fits the profile so far. One: her hair. Do you see just how long it is? Hip length. It's a positive visual match to that single hair you guys found on the bathroom floor. And before you ask, no, it didn't belong to any cleaning maids. I checked with the hotel, there is no one amongst the entire staff with such a long hair. Why is it important? Because I just matched that single hair to the strand of hair I found lodged under the driver's headrest. Could it have been in his car earlier and transferred onto his clothes? Maybe. But what is much harder to transfer, is fingerprints. All the food and drink trash you guys brought me from his room had gazillion of different fingerprints. But only two made a positive match and not just once but twice. Match number one – prints pulled from the taps in the bathroom. The cleaning crew must have been really thorough because everything was nearly spotless! There were only two sets found – Peters' and one unidentified. Match number two – prints I pulled from the Mustang. Peters' are obviously all over the car but those that matched the other person who used the sink, shower and ate in his room were found only inside, in the front seats zone. I found them on both right and left door handles, both seat belt buckles, and additionally on the driver's seat adjuster, steering wheel, gear shifter and the mirror," she counts out. "Now, here comes number two. Thanks to the positioning of the seat and the mirror, I was able to establish the approximate height of the last driver. Before I make a comparison, do you think your famous DiNozzo eyes are _still_ good enough to give me like, a rough estimate height of that girl in the lobby?"

" _Rough estimate_? Watch and weep," with a huff, Tony turns away from her, his fingers fumbling with the I-pad again, and she, seeing the 'challenge accepted' practically written all over his face, can't help but crack a brief smile. Male ego. She could probably write trilogies about it!

The recording, once more rewound, freezes at the very moment of the girl's entry. "I walked through that door and my head was up to here…" Tony mutters to himself and she just waits. It's always interesting to watch in action someone who – as he himself claims – could do female body measurements even in his sleep. "And she would reach up to my... Okay. She is between five feet and five, three inches."

"Okay, hand me a tissue!" she confirms the accuracy of his calculation. "My faithful ruler said between five and five two. And here comes the driver's height. Four nine to five two."

"It fits. I'm sold," Tony nods firmly. "What else do we have on her?"

"On who?"

They turn almost simultaneously at the sound of the familiar, female voice that stands out clearly over the everyday hum of the Squad Room. "On the unregistered plus one Peters apparently smuggled into his room," Tony responds to Ziva's question before she can. "Abby just positively matched some of the prints from the room to those from the car. Speaking of cars… aren't you supposed to be in one, on your way to the library?"

"Gibbs called and instructed me to get back. Said that I will be more useful here."

"Oh, I fully intend to make it happen," Tony assures and she notes his eyes trained solely on Ziva as their friend walks into bullpen, unzipping her coat. Now, in the bright light of day, it's much easier to spot the details and doesn't escape her attention how his pupils blow widely when Ziva's lithe body is finally revealed from under her thick winter garment. He turns away just as Ziva looks up and makes a bee line to the plasma, to join them – but she's seen enough. "Okay, Abby, what else do you have on her?"

"Well, no solid lead yet, unfortunately, but I did find a couple of details before I came up. The fantasy _'El Laberinto del Fauno'_ , in Spanish and no subtitles, was added to the room's bill at eighteen forty, at the time when Peters was out. The CCTV in the lobby registered his exit at eighteen ten and his return at nineteen hundred hours with two shopping bags from 7-Eleven. Now, something about food preferences. I followed the fingerprints and blood on the products he bought – his plus one definitely isn't a vegetarian, likes Kolashampan, Bocadito and Tamales. I checked all these foods. They're from El Salvador."

"Hmm," Tony muses. "Sounds very Latino. But you said 'blood', Abs?"

"I did! I found tiny traces on the lips of some of the bottles. Definitely not Peters'. His showed as AB negative and the one on the bottles was B positive. And it got me thinking – how do you leave so little blood but every time you drink from a bottle? And then, I noticed that the girl from the lobby has a pretty serious split lip. And do you know what happens when you eat or drink with a split lip? It tends to open even more with every bite…"

"Whoa, whoa, Abby, hold your horses," Tony interrupts her. "That detail does _not_ add up then! Just where do you see a split lip? Her face is clean!"

"Only because in this particular recording, you can see clearly only her left profile. I have stills of her from other cameras, wait, I'll show you," she takes over the I-pad and quickly swipes through the gallery, highlighting the image she needs to pull it on the plasma. "Oh, there you go. This is from the camera from the bottom corridor, near the staircase. Look at the right side of her face."

Both Tony and Ziva follow her directions, their bodies leaning towards the screen in perfect sync, something she can see easily standing on the side. They don't seem to notice, too busy analyzing the image in front of them but their bodies really do move as one.

"Nasty indeed," Ziva, so far silent, speaks out quietly. "And looks fresh."

"Very. And she looks _very_ much Latino," Tony adds, "who seems to like large, black necklaces."

"I thought so too," she comments on Tony's observation. "But it's actually a part of a tattoo. The rest of it is just hidden under her clothes. Already running it."

"Abby, can you zoom in?"

"Sure, where?" she does, focusing on the fragment Ziva points at. "Why?"

"The skin of her left palm looks weird."

They all stare for a long moment; indeed, the shadowed inside of the partially raised hand doesn't look like any normal, smooth palm should. But with only a partial view, it's hard to judge properly.

"I could clean it up a bit," she suggests, "but the angle is wrong…"

"Wait, at the entrance!" Tony interrupts her suddenly. "Abby, go back to the CCTV from the lobby and find the moment she pushes the door to enter!"

She does as Tony instructs and freezes the recording at the requested frame. This time, the still is precisely what they need; a clear view of the palm pressed flat against the glass door and more than sufficiently lit, thanks to the bright lights of the hotel's reception.

"Her palm is scarred! A good detail for BOLO. Nice catch, Ziva!" Tony compliments honestly.

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva smiles lightly. "I'd better start making notes."

"Do that. Write that they are definitely not new. If they were, she wouldn't have been using her hand like that, with her weight behind it. It would have been too painful."

So far choosing to watch her friends, this time she focuses on the image fully, letting their exchange become more of a background noise. At the sight of the skin marred with scars, some intangible thought begins to nibble at her at the back of her brain. But the more she tries to get hold of it, the more it slips away. The effects of that little adrenaline surge from earlier on were only temporary and it has already began showing, the preciseness of her senses being the first one to start fading away. But the detail Ziva caught feels important, so she saves the still, highlights the scarred hand and tags it with a large question mark for later.

"I suggest we start with the hotel's management. There is a chance she might be a member of their staff…"

"Abby's already done that," Tony interjects. "She isn't."

"What about the female guests? We could run that still against the ID scans of all women that are currently checked in."

"That girl had snack in, Ziva. Checked in guests don't need to do that, they have nothing to hide. Well, usually. But sure, we can do that. Alongside the official BOLO, that is. We need to talk to Metro, ASAP. Thanks, Abby!" Tony replies, already on his way to his desk. "Let us know when you get something on that tattoo."

"Will do," she promises again. "Unless, meanwhile, you would like to hear about the ballistics?"

"You have something more?"

She wants to follow up with some sharp riposte but opts not to. She will use enough energy for the rest of her presentation. "Yup," she replies simply and from amongst the files, she chooses the basic scene reenactment she had prepared and shares it on the plasma. On screen, a sharp edged model of the Mustang moves along the main road and turns into the alley where it was later found and she comments along. "Okay, a few new details regarding the crime scene. Thirty feet through, you guys found the four feet long skid marks on the snow. Whatever the reason was, it made the driver floor the brakes, hard. Those skid marks were made by wheels locked in position," she walks Tony and Ziva through, "They finally stop, Lance Corporal exits the passenger side, walks around the hood and it is somewhere here, by the left light, where he gets the first bullet, to the abdomen. He begins to bleed almost immediately, touches his wound with his left hand – and that is the bloodied hand print that was left all on the upper rim of the driver's open door. He used it for support and here is where he gets the other two bullets. All three are 9mil. Additionally, Ducky found a single bruise on his right calf and a whole bunch of similar bruises on the right side of his rib cage. All showed the same imprint of the front of a boot. Peters was not only shot thrice but also literally kicked off his feet and continuously kicked as he crawled. The fatal bullet, to the back, was also 9mil."

"Sounds like a rather angry shooter to me."

"Ducky thinks so, too," she confirms Ziva's observation, and pauses the presentation to explain freely. "As for John Doe, same as you guys established, one to the neck. It was caliber .22."

"Did you manage to match them?"

"Yes, but this is where it gets complicated. All four 9 mil were a match to a Glock 17, registered to Gareth Miles, Officer 1st Class of MPD –"

"A _cop_ shot him?"

"Didn't I mention it gets complicated?" she gives Tony a look. "Miles and his partner Rodney were killed in a line of duty last August and their guns were reported missing from the scene. Rodney's Glock is yet to be heard of but Miles' was used in a jewelry store robbery in Maryland, in late September. The store's owner got two rounds from it and didn't survive. His nephew, shot from another, still unidentified weapon, pulled through, and later described the robbers as 'three masked and gloved men, all brown-eyed with black back packs and each armed'. And as for .22, it was matched to several other crimes 2005 and 2006, also unsolved. The victims were all civilian but what's rather striking is that all died from just one shot – to the neck, left side."

"Same gun, same guy, same shot?" Ziva picks up after her remark, "Using the same weapon and technique leaves a long trail that can eventually lead straight to you. We should follow it."

"Agreed. Ziva, you dig into the Glock case, I will take the neck shooter," Tony replies. "Both so far look like dirtbags with multiple homicides in their books and that's not a joke. Abby, do you have the case numbers for Miles and those victims shot in the neck? We need to get in touch with everyone who was in charge."

"I have full files. Give me a second to log in and you will have it all."

Without really thinking about her choice, she moves behind Gibbs' desk. With his computer taking its sweet time to boot up, she sits to take a moment to glance around to see the bullpen from Gibbs' point of view, as she habitually does whenever this or other situation requires her to sit here. But something feels off. She can still see all other desks with as little as a minute move of her eyeballs – strategies is something Gibbs uses in _everything_ , even in creating specific gaps between his monitors – but everything seems to be higher than usually. It takes her two more glances to work out why.

It's not the monitors that are higher.

It is Gibbs' chair that is lower than usual.

A _lot._

And there was only one person who could have lowered it, one person who had sat here before she did.

 _Hart_.

In just an instant, that bitter feeling floods her again and she closes her eyes. _Why_ did that woman have to come back, after so long? Why now, when only just this past weekend things between her and Gibbs seemed to be finally shifting in the direction she'd always wanted to? He complimented her looks _,_ something he had _never_ done before, despite them being close friends. Aside from appreciating her work, he had only once during their long friendship said something nice about her appearance, back when she had dressed as Marilyn – but that had been more about her _costume_ than about her per say. That little compliment last Saturday caused her to spend the rest of the weekend in a state of trembling disbelief mixed with a very, _very_ careful hope. And when showed up at hers last night, so out of the blue and clearly straight from the road, so openly attentive… Even with her trying to hold back, that tiny, shy bat of hope started to multiply. Gibbs' teasing, his looks that seemed to be _more_ than just teasing, his fantastic gift, the way he held her so _close_ after she dared kissing his cheek – all that didn't do much to stop it and by the time she served him dinner, her stomach felt as if _made_ from dozens of small, fluttering bats. She wasn't even overly bothered by their disagreement, as the thing that got him angry was something she could explain and it would be all fine again the second she did. And try she did, a few times over the course of last night. She tried to get his attention, even if just for a minute – only to be practically ignored and left with no choice but to get back to work. And that's what she did, telling herself that after work, definitely… because when 'work mode' was on, only work mattered. Did it, though? Hot middle of their investigation – and yet, he followed _that_ _lawyer_ out, at a single request of that woman! She reappeared, just like that – and swept him away with no effort at all, seemingly with a simple swish of her perfect black hair… just like when she had first appeared in the picture, last year.

So much for her chances, then.

' _Or worse_ , _'_ her frantic brain supplies. Maybe Hart didn't _reappear_ in the picture… maybe she was never gone from it in a first place? Maybe she and Gibbs had been an item the whole time, despite him finding out about the lawyer being hired by Bell? Maybe they simply kept it a secret from everyone?

If that was the case, then perhaps Gibbs being different after last summer, being lighter somehow and in general, more likely to smile, was like that for a reason. Dating usually had that effect on him, she had seen it enough times in the past. And it would also mean that whatever she thought was beginning to finally change between Gibbs and her, was just that – thinking. Stupid, stupid wishful thinking that made her read too much into the situation… again!

"Abby?"

With a small wince, she opens her eyes, her gaze meeting Tony's questioning one.

"Aren't you perhaps falling asleep?"

"No. Just waiting for the PC to boot," the explanation pours so quickly out of her mouth that she is surprised just how easy it is to say half-truths. Not a lie, no – but not exactly a full truth either, not that anyone needs to know what she really has been thinking about. "And it did, finally! One more sec…" she says with lightness that is the exact opposite to what she feels. She logs in and after a few moments of browsing through her own NCIS account, she has the folder she needs to share with the team. One click 'send' and she is done. "There! All in your e-mails. Have a nice digging."

"And what are you up to now?"

"DNA, prints, tats, gunpowder… the usual," she shrugs, "And also, the rest of the secrets from Peters' phone."

"Let us know…"

"…as soon as I know," she says the usual line. It's so well used that it's probably fraying at the edges.

Both Ziva and Tony get busy with whatever they decided to view first and she gets up, more than eager to head back downstairs and lock herself away in the lab. But as she swivels the chair to push it back in under the desk, something tickles her hand.

Just a hair.

Long, inky black hair, stuck on the back of the chair.

Not hers. Hers is tightly braided today – she had to, before going near the evidence – and while she had let it grow recently, it isn't _that_ long.

Hart's.

And then, some inexplicable part of her pushes her to do something that has nothing to do with work. Making sure that neither Tony nor Ziva are watching, she holds the hair between her fingers. Peeling it off the fabric as the chair slides under the desk and hiding it in her palm is a matter of two seconds. _'Let's see what your_ _ **real**_ _hair color is, Princess Perfect…"_ she snarls inwardly. _'Inky black my ass!'_

Back to the lab it is.

Preferably, till next year.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


	12. Chapter 12

_Hello all,_

 _Thanks for staying with me for so long and supporting via PM messages._

 _Just wanted to say a couple of personal thanks for helping me with this chapter:_

 _Theresa F and AnonymousNCISfan – for providing a lot of info about how certain things work across the Pond,_

 _Alex – for being my faithful, ever so patient sounding board._

 _._

 _._

 **CHAPTER 12**

When working on something, Ziva usually does it silence, sharing a word or two only if she has an inquiry about something she's found, so when he hears her muttering something mere moments into their search, it immediately draws his attention. But one glance and he knows that her quiet words aren't directed at him at all. She is all focus, her dark chocolate eyes boring intensively into whatever she has on the display in front of her. What makes him even more curious is that none of her words are English.

"Need help with something, Ziva?"

Behind her monitor, she blinks and glances up at him, clearly surprised by his question. "No, why?"

"You're mumbling in Hebrew," he explains. "And every time you do that is either when you're talking with your relatives, or when someone pissed you off and you're swearing them a painful death, or when you're setting a secret date, or, when you need help but you don't want to admit it. Which one is it?"

"Neither. I was just… admiring."

"Admiring what, the files? Yeah, right! Just what exactly do you _really_ have on your screen, Miss David?"

"Oh, wouldn't _you_ like to know," the tone, combined with the provocatively raised eyebrow speeds up his pulse, something he can't help. "But if you must, yes, it _is_ the files. Or, more precisely, the amount of them. How did Abby gather them all so fast?"

A question someone will answer… never.

"I mean, just look at it! Files after files, after files, all cataloged, named, with tags and footnotes added on, all in just a few hours. How?"

"Well, I'm waging between time travel and cloning," he waves his hand dismissively, resolving to talk nonsense, for as long as it distracts him from paying attention to his quickly beating pulse. "She either has a time machine hidden in that lab cabinet that is always locked, used it to travel to the past and started researching this case last week," he says as seriously as he can, "or, which is just as likely, she cloned herself and worked with her many clones in perfect sync. What's your pick?"

Ziva's perplexed expression turns into one of an honest amusement and despite his slightly bothered state, he grins widely at the view. Ziva simply smiling at his joke – not laughing ironically at him as she usually does – is a view to behold... and store in memory, in secret. It's a rarity.

"At the risk of sounding absolutely ridiculous, I vote cloning. And I think I might even know the name of her device," she replies and he nods, encouraging her to continue, "Caf-Pow!"

Well… yeah.

"As much as I love disagreeing with you, with this one, I can't," he admits. "She probably dosed herself on so much caffeine that her normal speed tripled and if you had a peek at her while she worked, you might have thought that there were actually three Abbies running around the lab."

"It certainly does sound like her!"

Ziva returns to her work, her smile of amusement fading gradually as she becomes engrossed again in the flood of information they'd been given. He watches her pursed lips for another moment or two and then, blinks rapidly, shaking off all the distracting thoughts about her. With his focus where it should be, on the files displayed on his monitor, he gets on quickly with tasks at hand. With years of experience dealing with the stuff, some things just come automatically. Quickly, he starts up the photo recognition program. With a stroke of luck, if the girl had traveled anywhere, the system should find her and give them her passport details.

He is in the middle of a phone call with Metro, checking for any newest missing people reports, when all phones in the bullpen ring. He motions Ziva to pick up, paying very little attention to how she responds to the caller as they talk. But even that little is enough to know that the call is not of the NCIS origin and her, 'thank you, captain, I will pass it on,' only confirms.

"That was Captain Bridges from Norfolk," she informs him the moment he ends his own phone call. "They finally got hold of Peters' grandmother. They're on their way here."

"I'd better call Gibbs then," he decides and picks up his cell. Gibbs might not like his rendezvous being interrupted but still, this info, he should know. "He wanted to be the one to talk to the relatives."

"Well, I'm afraid it might not happen. Even with Gibbs driving, they won't make it there and back in forty five minutes."

"He actually _drove off_ from the Yard, now? And how do you know how long it is going to take them?" with his thumb frozen just above the 'call' button, he stares at Ziva, quite surprised. Unless it's necessary, Boss rarely ever shares his whereabouts, especially when his outings involve women from outside of work. "Did he at least tell you where he's going with her?"

"What are you talking about, Tony?'Her' _who_?" Ziva looks just as perplexed as he feels.

"Alison Hart. The lawyer, remember?" at Ziva's impatient nod, he explains, "She came here, not long after you and McGee left and dragged Gibbs out. You said he called you. Did he tell you where they were going?"

"He told me that _he_ is going with McGee. That's why he sent me back here."

"That, you didn't mention earlier!"

"The way you reacted _earlier,_ I assumed you knew!"

"Never assume, Ziva. There is a rule for that," he reminds her. "But nevermind. I should have shared we had a visitor, you should have shared that Gibbs left the Yard. We're even. The main point is that you're right. He and McGee won't make it back here in time."

A quick exchange with Boss over the phone call only confirms it. The usual morning traffic wouldn't normally be a problem but the traffic plus another bout of snow fall – that's another story. And they can expect just as much of a slow down on their way back. "Gibbs wants both of us to interview Mrs. Peters," he informs Ziva after he'd hung up. "We'd better have some of this done before she arrives."

"Then let's keep on digging."

And so they do. Between receiving calls and being interrupted by various agents from the other departments who come by to drop off this or other thing, they both work on establishing the next course of action, for both of them; getting in touch with all Metro detectives that investigated each shooting. His list only initially contains just one name. When he gets to the third of the seven files, the table named 'Leading Detective' shows a different one and as it a name that tears a discontented grunt out of him before he can contain it.

"Now, _that_ sound never bodes well," Ziva comments and when he looks at her, her eyebrows are raised questioningly, even though her eyes are still focused on her monitor. "What's the matter this time?"

A quick check of the remaining files reveals the same, very much disliked name. "Someone at Metro must have at some point added .22 and .22 enough times to finally come up with one," he grunts, "And a serial shooter is a serious case that is often transferred to a more senior detective."

"So, you will be talking to a senior detective. And?"

"It's the one and only, Danny Sportelli."

"Ouch," Ziva hisses as if she was the one who hurt. "I remember that case when our paths crossed – you pissed him off big time. When you two will meet again… it won't be pretty, yes?"

"No, it will not be pretty. All these shootings date back to 2005 and 2006, before he even got promoted. And every cold case means an unfinished business. What do you think he will do when I meet him and tell him that this pre-promotion business is up and running again?"

"If you talk to him looking and acting like you are right now? Easy to see," Ziva comments on his words with a small shrug. "He will steamstroll right over you. You might as well save us the trouble and arrest yourself already."

"It's 'steam _roll_ ' _,_ Ziva, but nevermind, as it's not gonna happen–" he trails off when Ziva reaches for the headpiece of her desk phone, ignoring his comment completely. "Hey, what are you doing? If someone is gonna call Gibbs about it, it will be me, not you – and not just yet. He is probably at the library by now."

"I'm not calling Gibbs," Ziva hesitates with her finger hovering above the phone, "I'm calling Abby. I need to make sure she knows, too."

"Ziva, she was the one who pulled the files for us. I'm pretty sure she knows."

"If she knew that the guy who stomped on her toenails would be likely joining us, don't you think she would have mentioned it?

Well, that, he can't argue with. Abby mentions _everything_ she had dug out, sometimes even things that are not immediately relevant. So, if she hasn't… yeah. "It's 'stepping', not 'stomping' and just 'toes', not 'toenails', Ziva. The phrase is 'stepping on one's toes," he can't stop himself from correcting again, "But yeah, you've got a point. But still, maybe it's better this way, at least for a bit? You tell her now, she will panic and right now, she needs peace so she can focus on her current load. She is over-stressed as it is."

"Ah, such a protective sweet thing you are, aren't you, Tony? Who would have thought…?" Ziva mockingly raises her eyebrows at him and he scowls right back at her, not wanting to show that her words, even though clearly meant only as a joke, actually stung him a bit. Of course her cares about the people on the team – how can _she_ doubt, she of all people? "But you're wrong, Tony. She does get frantic sometimes, yes, but it doesn't affect her analytical abilities. Weird but true. Trust me, she doesn't need anyone to cobble her _._ "

"' _Coddle_ ', Ziva. The word is 'coddle', not 'cobble'," he dodges, "A cobble is a small, round stone that had once been used to cover road surfaces–"

"And that's exactly what I feel like throwing at you!" Ziva hisses and he, a little taken aback by her sudden outburst, just watches as she finally punches the speed-dial button with vengeance and waits for the call to go through.

"Put it on speaker." As her heated glare is his only reply, he just shrugs. "You want your ear to be blasted by Abby's music, be my guest."

Ziva's reflexes are snake-like fast, just like Gibbs'. But it's one thing to see these reflexes in combat, or when they train together and a different one at the office, where no-one expects anything to be happening with lightning-like quickness. He _hears_ another button being punched, he _knows_ it's the 'loud speaker' one, as the dial signal suddenly sounds loud and clear in the bullpen – but the movement of the hand that did it – that, he could swear didn't even happen.

 _''In a blink of an eye' is meant_ _to be just a_ _ **figure of speech**_ _,'_ he complaints silently to himself.

But _of course_ only Ziva could do it quite literally.

And only Ziva could get him hot and bothered just by mere punching a button of a phone.

"What's the trouble this time?" Abby's throaty voice replaces the dial tone suddenly, even and calm, but just as Ziva begins to concisely inquire about his little find, he begins a countdown in his head, waiting for what he just _knows_ will come. And it does. "The who, the what, the why, the when, the where? How the heck did I miss the name of this Troglodyte?" Abby changes instantly as she moans protractedly and he gives Ziva a pointed look, which she just as pointedly ignores. "Has Tony spoken to him yet?"

"Not yet. But soon."

"Then no time to waste. Toda raba, Ziva! For the warning, I mean. It gives me a head start."

"A lo davar, Abby! We'll let you know in time."

"Told you so," he comments the moment Abby disconnects the call. "Next thing you know, she is gonna put her lab under a total lock down."

"And that actually wouldn't be such a bad idea! Maybe I'll just lock myself away with her, if it means working _in peace_ ," Ziva snaps at him and after throwing him one more glare, focuses solely on her screen.

He gets back to his work, sighing to himself. _'There it goes again'_ , he reflects, _'never an hour without arguing.'_ There used to be a time when he _reveled_ in their banter but not so much anymore. It's still fun, yeah – except for the moments like this one just now, when it's clear that it has gone too far. His fault though, no questions asked. If only he knew when to shut his mouth!

It's the DiNozzo thing – not knowing when to stop.

And considering that he had decided that he wants to try and change things between them, to win her over… yeah, knowing when to stop is definitely a thing he should work on.

He lets Ziva work in silence, allowing her to cool off a bit. For now, he got away with daggers in her eyes. One more word too early and who knows, maybe there will be real daggers flying in his direction. And Probationary Agent Ninja has more than one of them, concealed somewhere on her body, that's for sure!

Finally though, after several minutes have passed, he risks it. "Hey, Ziva," he calls out, not surprised when she throws him only a sideway, warning glance. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

It's an unusual view, Ziva looking like she forgot how to speak. Her stare, having rapidly lost its warning glint, is blank for a split of a second, after which she raises her eyebrows at him in question. "Are you feverish, Tony? Because I could swear I heard an apology and there is no way you would do it fully conscious."

"Not feverish. I said it. I meant it. Will you accept it?"

"Will you promise that you will stop being such a pain in the behind?"

"Pain in the…" the correction rolls off his tongue before he can even think, but he forces himself to bite the rest of comment back. "…is what runs in the DiNozzo bad blood," he finishes smoothly instead, with a crooked smile. "But I can try."

For another long moment, Ziva stares at him, judgment clear in her narrowed eyes. But you can't fake what is real and she is too good at being a human lie detector to misread it. "I will hold you to your word!" she scoffs but her voice carries none of the former annoyance. As she calmly returns to her work, he gives himself a mental pat on the back. Not too bad this time.

He focuses once more on his task, somehow managing to pay attention to nothing more but his computer only. He tunes everything else out and that's why when he hears McGee's voice, it surprises him. Didn't Gibbs say it will take them at least another hour before they make it back?

"Ziva, are you up for breakfast?"

"I could be. Why?"

"Take a peek and decide!"

McGee's open coat doesn't let him see what is being taken out of the large, thermal bag but the sound of Ziva's inhaling, followed by her awed sigh, is enough for him to know that it must be something pretty good. "Oh, McGee, for something like _that_? Of course I'm up for it, thank you!" she praises and a second later that smell reaches also his own nose, leaving no doubt that this freshly baked something isn't _just_ good. "And tastes ever better than it smells…"

"Okay, enough!" he bursts from his chair, too bothered by the sound of Ziva's moan to remain an impassive listener. The delicious aroma of the pastry doesn't make things any easier either, not with his empty stomach. "McGee, before I sit you at _your_ desk from where you will share what news you've got for us, you'd better tell me you have one of these things for me, too. Otherwise, you'll be dealing with a Very Special Agent who's known to get very angry when he's very hungry."

"I think I've survived worse," McGee merely shrugs in a reply, indeed completely unfazed by his demand. "But yeah, there a couple of these for you, too. Here…"

"No, McGee, wait!" Ziva is out of her chair in an instant, exiting her corner nimbly like a cat. "What was it that you said less than an hour ago? Something about _trying_?" she challenges and he just huffs quietly, not able to deny. "So, do! Ask _nicely."_

He returns Ziva's provocative stare and then, turns to Tim, biting back all the extra snarky retorts that are unlikely to be helpful to his cause. Maybe it will pay off at some point. Maybe. "McGee, can I have my share? Please?"

Well, it does – if McGee's eyes widely opened in disbelief can count as any sort of gratification. Ziva – Ziva just waits, smirking lightly.

"Ziva, did I just hear 'please'? Is he feverish?"

"I was wondering the same thing," Ziva smirks a little wider and then innocently bites off another piece of her pastry. He just stares at her, unable _not to_. The French pastry is one thing… but the way she licks the apple filling off her lips as she chews... Although, maybe he should look away. "I have to say, he does look a bit flushed."

Yeah, he definitely _should_ look away.

"Yeah, that would explain. Maybe he caught a chill last night, when we were processing scene, he's prone to it… hey, watch it!" McGee holds the bag tighter when he reaches for it. "There's also coffee in there, still hot!"

More carefully now, he helps himself to two out of a rather wide selection of baked goodies. The apple pastry tastes great and rinsed down with his favorite Jamaican Mocca, it actually _does_ help to lighten his mood, even if just a bit. A good food usually does the trick. "How much do I owe you?"

"Tony, _wanting_ to pay back? Definitely feverish," McGee shakes his head at him and reaches into the bag himself. "But that is a question you need to ask Gibbs. He paid."

Okay, even the tastiest of pastries don't taste that well when they go back up your nose. " _Hh-he_?" he manages to choke out, fighting to get his breathing under control. "How… did… you make him?"

"I didn't. It was all his idea."

He eyes suspiciously his teammate, whose eyes look at him with an utter honesty, then the bag and then, the pastry, as if _it_ could provide him with an explanation, and finally, looks around the Squad room. But Boss is nowhere near in sight. "Where is he now, anyway?"

"He went to get another coffee. The one that came with our breakfast was 'not strong enough'," McGee grins suggestively as he gruffly emphasizes their boss' description, "so, he's gone where 'they make it right'."

"Then let's use the remaining moments of freedom wisely," he bites off a large piece of his second pastry, almost finishing it. With only one place in the immediate vicinity where coffee is exactly to Gibbs' preferences, they have about ten minutes left. "Over to you, McGoo. You McDelivered our breakfast, now, do the same with the update, stat! How was the library?"

McGee does share, but not before he's had half of his doughnut and of course fully swallowed. "Productive. The account the book was last lend to belongs to Seamus O'Neill and the librarian positively ID John Doe as him. We got some of his personal details, including the address but unfortunately, it's no longer valid. Right now, there's a big construction site going on down there. We spoke to the manager; the previous building burned down sometime in August. I tried to do more search on it from the car but kept losing the signal."

"Then delay no longer," he instructs. "And do it fast. You still have street cam recordings to process."

"On it," Tim promises. "And what did I miss here?"

"For starters, a visit from our not very favorite lawyer, Ms. Hart. Details later, if you care to hear," he dishes out, immediately noting a genuine interest in his teammate's eyes. Oh yeah. McGee isn't as indifferent to the office gossip as he likes to portray himself to be.

Satisfied to have sown the seed of curiosity, he gets down to the actual business and briefs Tim in on everything that Abby gave them. Ballistics quickly out of the way, he moves on to Peters' guest, meanwhile making a short work of finding the recording from the lobby. Sharing it on the re-activated plasma, he fast-forwards it till the moment of the girl's entry. "He made a whole show with his map and you got distracted by it, McGee, just like the receptionist. Thank Abby later for spotting it."

The unruly part of him wants to bust Tim's balls a bit more, like he usually does but he restrains himself. His comment was enough, it seems, if his teammate's suddenly solemn face and widened eyes are anything to go by. Not to mention Ziva's eyes on _him_ , something he feels akin to a laser trying to cut a hole on the side of his face, so hot his cheek suddenly is. "Feel free to pitch in with your ideas of how to trace her," he says instead. "Right, that's it for now. Campfire's over!"

He switches the plasma off and walks away to his desk, like the others. It is when he is about to close the program also on his own screen, when his investigator's instincts nag at him again. Not quite sure why, he rewinds the recording and watches it in silence, once, and then again. It takes one more session before he finally makes the connection. He zooms in to the max on the paused footage and now sure, clicks 'print'. The machine next to him whirs loudly, naturally drawing the others' attention.

"McGee, do you have O'Neill's details on your PDA?" he requests as he grabs the printout. "I need to ask Ducky about something."

"Yes, but you don't need to. He…"

"Oh, c'mon, I'll bring it back in one piece, I promise," he interrupts, and quicker than Tim can react, he snatches the device from the desk. "Ziva, I won't be long but in case Mrs. Peters arrives when I'm still down there, call me!"

Downstairs, he is greeted by the view of Ducky's back as their ME busies himself with filling some medical form on his computer. "Jethro, what a good timing! I've just printed Mr. O'Neill's medical records for you–" the words trail off on Ducky's lips as he turns and immediately realizes his mistake. "Anthony! Acting as Jethro's messenger, are you?"

"No, I came with my own quest. But how do you know John Doe's name? Did McGee e-mail you his details when I was in the elevator?"

"Oh, how much easier life would be if the background check took as short as the length of the elevator ride!" Ducky glances up at him from above the rim of his glasses with interest. "No, it wasn't Timothy. Jethro called me from the library."

Of course he did.

Something must have reflected in his face as Ducky's eyes light up with tease. "A little miscommunication there, Anthony?"

"Oh, you know the saying about the mouth being faster than the brain? It just happens that my legs, the pride of my life, are even faster," he shrugs it off jokingly, sliding McGee's PDA back in the pocket, now that is not required. Pulling out his pen instead, he thinks of Tim's words before he had cut him off. So, maybe that's what McGee had tried to tell him. Well, serves him right for rushing off without actually checking. "But since I'm here already, I could take the update upstairs, if that's okay? We could start on it before he comes back."

"By all means! Sometimes even a couple of minutes can make a big difference," from the corner of his desk, Ducky picks up a couple of pages stapled together and glances at the first one. "A few details to complete my autopsy report. Mr. O'Neill's missing appendix was removed in 2001, the long healed fractures on his nose, jaw and knuckles, as well as the five inch slash wound, all date back to 2005. There was a police report attached to it; apparently, our victim had a bit of a criminal past. But let us carry on. Aside from that incident, there is absolutely nothing in his medical history until last summer. On August 3rd, he was admitted to ER with second degree hand burns he had sustained in a house fire and discharged two days later."

"It fits. Tim said that his building burned down sometime in August."

"A correlation that will be also pretty easy for you to verify, I'm sure. So, that's that, the ball is now in your court. But speaking of questions, you said you have one of your own? What can I do for you, Anthony?"

Reminded of his own purpose down here, he shows Ducky the printout and explains. But he doesn't even get to finish his question, interrupted with a move of Ducky's hand. "What?"

"It's fascinating how many people take interest in burnt tissue today and clearly, without even talking to each other," at his questioning gaze, Ducky chuckles lightly. "Abby was here earlier and asked about the very same hand."

 _Of course_ she did.

"And what was your verdict, Ducky?"

"My verdict was and still is that it's hard to judge anything of such poor resolution. Having this said, though, I'm inclined to say that the cause was a contact with heat. Chemical burns tend to leave different marks. One thing I'm sure of is that these scars cover the same area as on Mr. O'Neill's hands. They also appear to be in a similar stage of healing."

"And what did Abby say? Did she find this angle worth trying?"

"Anthony, has Abby ever found anything _not_ worth trying? After all, we have two individuals that bear very similar scars travelling in the same car. What is the probability that they _don't_ know each other and that their scars are _not_ the result of the same fire, huh?" Ducky's usual jovial smile turns slightly mischievous and he just rolls his eyes. It's Ducky's face in front of him, it's Ducky's voice that speaks – but the words just scream Abby. "Let me just tell you this: once I shared with her the date of Mr. O'Neill's visit to the ER, I only managed to add, 'Check with Red Cross…' and puff! – I found myself suddenly alone, still talking to Abby-shaped cloud of smoke that was left in her wake."

"That's very ' _Looney Tunes'_ there _,_ Ducky!" he can't help but snort with amusement at the description. "Hey, that's it! Mystery solved! I just said it! _That's_ how she runs around the lab and the Yard around so fast! She must be secretly a descendant of the Roadrunner!"

"Well, the Greater Roadrunner is mostly found in the Southwestern States but it is not unheard for them to be seen down in Louisiana, too, so who knows," Ducky joins him in laughter. "How does a nickname 'Labrunner' sound to you?"

"Love it! I wonder though what Labrunner herself will say about being renamed," he sums up. And then, he remembers something. Since he is already down here, he might as well… "But speaking of ideas. Our over-caffeinated Labrunner suggested a belated Christmas movie night at my place and I second her. What do you say, Ducky? Any plans for the upcoming weekend?"

"Which day?"

"Whichever works for everybody. Around, say, six, seven pm?"

"Food?"

"We will work it out."

"Good wine?"

"On the house."

"Then I say, 'count me in', Anthony, matters not which day you should choose."

"Aaaand the golden ticket goes to the lucky Doctor Duckman over here!" he grins almost maniacally in reply, genuinely happy that his guest list is growing. Three out of seven is not bad for a start. But he shouldn't be surprised that it went so smoothly with Ducky. Despite being the most senior out of all of them, not only is their favorite doctor eager to participate in any of their team gatherings; he is most often the most active initiator of such. Convincing the second senior of their group, however – now _that_ will be a challenge. "Last request before I go, Ducky. Since a _certain someone,_ whose name needs not be spoken, is likely to express his refusal with a silent and yet very telling glare, may I count on your help in dragging him to the party?"

"Anthony, this _certain someone_ could not be _dragged_ even if you used a pair of wild horses. Do I look stronger than a horse to you?"

"Ducky, you have the strength of the spirit, the wits and the persuasion skills that count for more than the power of a _dozen_ of wild horses."

"Ah, the good old flattery," Ducky's comment is topped up with a knowing chuckle. "Too bad I'm not as immune to it as I ought to be. Oh well, alright. All for the greater good, I'll do what I can."

"Then I might as well consider it done," he compliments in advance, and realizing just how much time he had spent down here, chatting, he decides to get back to work. "Thanks, Ducky!"

"You're most welcome… Anthony!" Ducky's amused, almost sing-song voice stops him right in the middle of his energetic way to the exit. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Seeing Ducky wave the yellow manila folder, he almost does a facepalm. "The file! Right."

Ducky's jovial laughter chases him till the Autopsy's door fully closes behind him.

As the elevator takes its sweet time to descend from the top floor, he quickly reads through the police note, noting the name of the gang that was the reported perpetrator. Impatient to go back upstairs and make use of the newly found details into their finds, he checks his Rolex. If he hurries in Abby's lab, maybe, just maybe he will make it just for Boss' arrival in the Squad Room and give him a double update. He grins to himself. All hail good timing.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

When he first walks into the lab, a Caf-Pow! and a paper bag with breakfast in his hands, everything seems to be exactly as it always looks in the lab on any given morning. The evidence bench is fully taken over by several test tube racks, readied for testing, various electronics whir and beep at different volumes, like they always do and the main computer screen blinks rapidly with what's clearly an ongoing fingerprint search, dubbed by the plasma on the wall. One cursory glance through the glass of the inner lab's door is enough to know that in there too, everything looks just as usual.

That something _is_ a little odd after all, he realizes the second his decisive strides activate the motion sensor; Abby doesn't spin her chair around to see who her visitor is. It is one thing to approach her unawares when she is utterly immersed in work in the main lab. But in the office – that's another. No amount of work could make her miss the beeping of the door as it slides open, even with the music playing. And there isn't any, now.

That's another odd thing.

It becomes clearer why it is so after he places everything on the desk and walks further inside. Hard to notice from behind, from the side the black headphones are easy to see, poking out from between Abby's lightly tangled, let down hair. He quickly identifies the pair; much smaller in size than the large orange ones used in the ballistics lab, these ones are noise cancelling nonetheless; with them on, no wonder she didn't notice. But it's more than just the headphones. It takes him merely a moment longer of observing and listening to know for sure. Over the past years, he had seen her enough times dozing at her desk with her chin nested in her hands. There even had been a few or so instances, especially recently, when he had the chance to stare to his heart content; now he knows the tale tells.

Now, too, he stares, soaking in all the familiar details of her appearance, though with his heart feeling the opposite of content. Logically, he knows he has no valid reason to feel that he had lost; you can't lose something that was never truly yours to begin with. Close friends – that's what Abby and he are and it had been _his own_ resolve to never try if she would ever consider being more. Logically, he knows he has no right to hate that librarian guy who had proposed to her; people were free to propose to whomever they want, for as long as their chosen person was free to say yes – and she was. Logically, he knows he shouldn't feel angry about how he had found out about it, only thanks to _DiNozzo's_ big mouth; people had the right to share the news about their lives with whomever _they_ chose and the rest of the world just had to be okay with the fact of not being in the known.

Right?

Right.

Well, too bad that his heart doesn't give a damn crap about logic.

And on top of that, he feels like a fool. Him, hurting – it's on _him_ , for allowing himself a weakness.

This is precisely why he had made rule twelve all those years ago.

A sudden blinking of something on the screen draws him out from his brooding, and clenching his jaws hard, he quickly schools himself, weirdly glad for the distraction. The _right_ thing to focus on, he reminds himself. A job to be done, yes, always the right thing to do. And if it helps with ignoring personal issues – well, all the better.

All business, he leans in to touch Abby's shoulder. When she doesn't stir in the slightest, it occurs to him that she might have more than just dozed off. And he is right. It takes a firmer squeeze and a little shake to finally get a response.

Not one he expected though. Abby's left hand shoots from under her chin so fast, that only his Marine reflexes allow him to back off in time. Anyone else and their hand would have been grabbed and immobilized.

"Court order or bye, bye!"

"Abby!"

Her eyes snap open, still unfocused but she pulls herself together enough to relax her self-defense pose and slide the headphones off her head. "Gibbs! Sorry! I thought… Is… is he here yet, so fast? Why didn't Tony or Ziva warn me?" A fast glance over to the main lab and she calms a bit. "Did you leave him upstairs?"

"Who?"

"What do you mean 'who'? Sportelli! Why do you look like you have no idea what I'm talking about?"

"'Cause I've no idea what you're talkin' about?"

"Oh, alright then. Since you don't know, it means he can't be here because otherwise you _would_ have known… Wait. Why _don't_ you know? Tony didn't tell you?"

Still not over her startling reaction upon being woken and now, lost completely at what to think about her frantic talk, he makes himself wait patiently till she wakes fully. Normally, dozing on the job doesn't bother him much. It happens sometimes – to each and single one of them, an inevitable part of working long hours. What _does_ begin to bother him, as he continues to observe her, is her appearance. Already this morning she looked vastly different to how she had last night, when he had dropped by her place. But after having had this little power nap just now, she should look better. But she doesn't – she actually looks even _worse_. Hair a mess, incoherent speech – that, he knows; he's been there, done that. But the very dark eye circles, now very pronounced due to her untouched-up makeup, her red rimmed eyes, her pupils, still blowing in and out, now,that did _not_ look like the result of just one single all-nighter pulled.

Well, perhaps people in HR _did_ have a point after all when they summoned him this morning.

"Back to Earth yet?" he asks when she finally looks focused enough. "Think you can make sense now?"

"But I am!" she protests and before he can in any way question it, she continues quickly, "Okay, judging by the honest cluelessness on your face and the very wet coat that you still haven't taken off for some reason, I assume you haven't been upstairs yet, right?"

Well, that, he can't deny.

"Then you're stuck with me for updates after all. Long story short – the four bullets Ducky pulled from Peters were all 9mil and came from one source, a firearm stolen from a cop who was killed on duty. The single bullet from our no longer John Doe was .22 and I matched the striations to a street piece linked to several previous homicides. And this is where Sportelli comes in. He investigated those homicides, unsuccessfully. Tony thinks that once he's interviewed him, we will have hands full both with our case and with fending Sportelli off it."

At the news, finally seeing that all the disjointed facts _do_ make sense after all, he grits his teeth again. Great, just what they need. Cooperation with Metro's Homicide Department is rarely a smooth thing but Sportelli, overzealous and chauvinistic as he is, now that's another level of pain in the ass.

"Glad you're agree with Tony's assessment," Abby comments on his wordless response. "And before you ask, I already made copies of everything, just in case. However, all this running made me thirsty. So now, can you agree with _me,_ that I really, really, but _really_ need this Caf-Pow, even though I don't have any super solid lead yet?"

Without waiting for his reply, she pushes herself away from the far end of the desk, her desk chair rolling noisily towards the door, where he had left her breakfast. What makes him do so, he doesn't quite know yet but he moves over and snatches the drink away just before she could wrap her hand around it.

"Okay, no agreement –"

"Not my point," he cuts her off, firmly, following her movements as she wheels herself back to the computer. "How many of these have you had since you came in, Abs?"

"Less than enough," as her hands get busy on the keyboard, he watches her, immediately noting the much, much slower than usual movements of her fingers. "Okay, findings first then. From what I _do_ have at the moment, I can give you Peters' complete route from Norfolk. Also, I managed to access his voicemail. He had only two messages, received when he was still on duty. One was from his grandmother, expressing her excitement that he will make it for Christmas dinner. The second one was from a girl called Marisol, very distressed about, I quote, 'Diego, knowing it all, going all mad about it and hitting her in a face'. She called Peters _cariño_ and begged him to come and get her from 'padre'. It could explain why Peters rain-checked the family Christmas dinner in Fairfax and dashed to D.C. instead. What still needs to be explained is why he smuggled his girl to a hotel instead of taking her straight to the police."

He wants to press her to answer the question he's just asked, and he will – but the professional curiosity wins for now. "Wait, what? He had a girl with him?" Having been held back by a couple of things and later, busy questioning the hotel's security and the staff, he hadn't been in Peters' room much whilst it was being processed. Maybe he should have, though. "Evidence?"

"Absolutely! Hair, collected from the bathroom was a match to the strand I pulled from under the driver's headrest. Fingerprints, from the bathroom and other various places like the table or TV remote control – two sets got an instant match. Both, one Peters' and one unidentified, were all over his car, including the driver's area, and I managed to determine that the unidentified set is the _most recent,_ " the way she accentuates, he can already see where this is going. That set must belong to a person who drove the car last. "Now, CCTV. Upon checking in, Peters played smoke and screen with the receptionist. The girl who sneaked in behind him was a strong visual match to our missing driver's estimated height and…"

"Abby! _Slow down!_ " he cuts in again. As much as he prefers bare facts and bottom lines, right now he wouldn't mind a slightly more detailed explanation. Clearly, he's missed more than a little during the time he was gone from the Yard. "Prints matching, okay, I get it. But _estimated_ height only? You're sure you're chasing the right person?"

"This girl's hair length is _also_ a match. Additionally, on the recordings from other cameras I saw this girl's split lip. You know, the type that earns you _very_ concerned looks when people see you. I showed it to Ducky and based on the visible bruising, he estimated her injury to have had occurred three to six hours prior. But to be sure, once I finally got into Peters' phone, I ran the still of her against the photos in his gallery. Again, instant matches. The most recent snapshot of her was in his hotel room, actually," Abby's firm explanation once again puts a quick end to the idea of questioning her any further, "Another one of his photos was used as caller's ID, under the number named as 'Mari'. I'm running it already, it's a burn phone. I'll let you know the second there is any activity on it. And some other of his photos were more than good enough to run photo recognition. Bad news? So far, an absolute zero hits from any government database. She isn't in the system at all. Good news? I did find her on Facebook."

"Facebook." His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief but some other part of him reins in the urge to voice the rest of his opinion on this social networking _thingy_. After all, he thinks, even Ducky uses this for his professional gains so it can't be entirely useless. And as often as Abby takes detours from the officially approved ways of searching for information, she wouldn't have mentioned anything that was of no use at all to them. "Anything _good_?"

"Her full name and D.O.B., both looking genuine enough thanks to at least twenty independent birthday posts from people marked as family. Photos that feature her and the said _familia y mejores amigos_ in Santa Tecla, El Salvador, later suddenly replaced with snapshots of her here, in DC. Places she's been to, people she hangs around with, including Peters and O'Neill," Abby just shrugs as she counts out and he nods, acknowledging. It's not the first time when he has to trust her skills, no matter how ridiculous her finds sound to him at first. "It also gave me two different IP addresses from which her DC posts came from. One was last used months ago, the other ever since, right until five days ago. I was just about to start on pinpointing each of them to get the street location and see if they were home addresses or just internet cafés."

"Okay, go," As she gets busy typing, he uses a moment of silence between them to digest all he's just heard and try to fit the pieces together. But there are still too many missing. "You got where she called him from?"

"Just need to dig a little deeper in his phone's software."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No, that's all I have for now."

"Yeah?" he motions at the other monitor, where yet another window has just popped up to the front, flashing in an alarmingly bright blue. "So what's that?

Abby blinks groggily before checking. "It's just a fax alert… oh, wait, and a tire match!"

Once the results are open, she says nothing more, preoccupied with waiting for the printout and later writing something down. He reads the added details when she hands the piece of paper to him, following her automatically as she heads back to the main lab. And focused on the names of the tires, all matched to motocross bikes, it takes him a moment to realize that there is a difference to Abby's normal gait. It isn't just the slower pace. The limp is slight but clearly there.

Still saying nothing, she retrieves the faxed pages. He doesn't comment on her unusual silence, only standing by expectantly as she reads, making his intent of hearing the news clear. "It's from the Red Cross," she explains once she's done, handing him the printouts. "Ziva noticed scars on this girl's palm and Ducky confirmed them to be burn scars, similar to what O'Neill had. My contact checked it for me – and a double bingo! The list of people who were attended by the medics immediately after that fire in O'Neill's building _does_ mention Marisol's name. By the way, she is listed _directly_ below O'Neill. No mention of her on the list of the registered tenants though, which in turn explains why she also isn't on the list of those who were offered a temporary housing. O'Neill, however, is on both of these lists. As for her, I'm thinking hospitals. If O'Neill was taken to one with his hand burns, she was probably too. What do you think, Gibbs?"

"McGee can do it," he replies decisively. He has no doubt she can follow successfully on her hunch but not at the cost of other lab work. "Send him all you have on her."

"But Gibbs, why? I can do it and it will be faster than –"

"Not a competition, Abs!" he cuts in, surprised by her protestations. Normally, her answer would be 'sure thing'! "I gave that CCTV to _McGee_ to take care of. He spotted the girl, you got him more details when he was out, great – now he's back, let him continue what I told him to do," he commands. He'd never thought that it would happen with Abby but it looks like even _she_ needs to be reminded about the importance of splitting and delegating tasks. No point having two people on the same job if one can handle it – and McGee definitely can. "Is your own lab work fully done?"

The look she shoots him is odd, something he has difficulty deciphering. And doesn't get to anyway, for she turns away rapidly, beaconed by a computer beep and marches to her main computer station. Or, at least she _tries_ to march. Two steps through and he can hear her sucking in her breath sharply, her body momentarily rigid. She carries on nevertheless, despite her clearly stiffened leg, only a bit slower.

Task delegation issue temporarily aside, he remembers his concerns. But too wound up to just talk, he chooses action. The chair left by the microscope table clatters noisily on the lab's floor as he drags it along and it's Abby's lack of reaction to the sound that tell him enough of her mood. Her typing, loud and aggressive, tells him even more. It's curious, how over the years you learn to read your people's moods from their silence and from the way they use their keyboards.

"Sit, Abs."

"It's fine. I'm off to ballistics anyway –"

"Abby." he repeats, quietly but firmly. After another moment of silence between them, she does as told, silently, in one smooth move. But the appearances of everything being just fine, even though surprisingly good, are not good enough for him. The seemingly natural motion of adjusting her lab coat as she sits isn't random at all. To him, it looks like intent to shield things – namely, her hand, tightly gripped on the arm rest as she lowers herself onto the chair, as well as her right thigh.

The second her attention is back to the e-mail window, he quickly pulls the white fabric off her lap. And he can't believe what he's seeing. The muscles of her thigh spasm – so strongly that he can _see_ their movement even through her clothes. "Wanna tell me why you're trying to hide something that bad from me?"

"What, that? But it's nothing! I've had worse."

It's not a straight answer and in Abby's case, it's very telling. Before he can think twice of his action, he reaches down and touches her calf. It's merely a light stroke – but apparently, it's enough to make her flinch and suck her breath in again.

He retracts his hand. He does feel apologetic – but the worry overrides that feeling tenfold. "'Not bad' my ass," he comments. "Your muscles are like concrete!"

"Well, yeah! That's because I'm flexing them!"

Yeah, right.

"Really, Abs? Lying to me, _you?_ "

"I am… what?" she shoots him a look full of disbelief and hurt. "How could you even think that?"

Maybe it's the sour mood talking but for the first time since he's known her, he doesn't take the trust for granted and looks for any hints of deception. Abby _had_ kept things from him before – and recently, more than just a few, apparently. She is not telling him everything like he was once certain she did. Maybe that honest look on her face doesn't matter. Maybe she is better at wearing masks than he thought.

"Oh, ye of so little faith in me! Fine, check for yourself if you must, or whatever," she says literally the same second he's decided to do exactly that. Then, throwing her hands up in a gesture of frustration, she turns away to her monitor. "I have things to do."

With a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, same one he gets every time she predicts his actions right, he reaches out again. Maybe it's not the best idea to touch her in these circumstances but this is not about him and his inner need to touch her, to feel her _somehow_ , this is about her well-being, he tells himself, so screw the circumstances. He touches the same spot he stroked before, gently, but this time holds his hand in place.

And damn.

The muscles of her calf do move under his open palm – but what at first glance looked like a strong, uncontrollable spasm, is in fact _very_ much controlled. Hard one second, the next, even harder, the muscles stretch and contract, on and on, in a slow, regular pace that is in full sync with a small movement of Abby's foot. She is indeed, flexing, and very ably at that. Where and when she had learnt that technique, he doesn't know, but it's exactly how he deals with his own cramps if he is in no position to massage them out.

"Still, looks bad enough to me," he sort of acknowledges the trueness of her words. "See Ducky about this."

"About what, a stupid cramp? Gibbs, seriously, it's fine. I'll just walk it off."

"Like _all_ those times before? Gimme that leg!" his action faster than his brain this time, he's kneeling before he can think twice about it, both of his hands around her slim calf before she even has the chance to answer. Warmth can do wonders to the flesh, and he does just that, warms up her still little stiff, now unmoving muscles with long, gentle strokes before beginning the actual massage. She glances at him briefly, her attention only momentarily pulled from her interrupted work but it's enough for him. Her pupils, blown wide despite the bright light of the screen, are impossible to miss. And he knows well, from his own experience – amongst many causes of pupil dilation, there is pain. Oh yeah, she is in pain alright, even if she's taking it well. "It's been happening to you too often, Abs. I don't like it."

"Gibbs… do I need to tell _you_ that it happens sometimes when you work physically? And besides, Mr. Pot... How many times have _you_ pulled a muscle and didn't even give a fig?"

' _Only too many to count them all_ ,' he thinks. But there are other types of cramps, too. "But yours happen for no apparent reason, too. Fine one moment, cramping the next. Especially recently. Have you _once_ considered why? Like, lifestyle, or diet? Or, maybe having even more Caf-Pow instead of actually sleeping?"

"And what does one have to do with another?"

His hands still busy doing their own thing, he stares at her pointedly. "How about a _lot_ of caffeine and even more carbohydrates?"

And bingo – looks like his blind shot actually did hit home. Seeing her sudden hesitation, the flash of a genuine consideration in her eyes, he decides to strike the iron while it's hot. "Caffeine dehydrates. And high sugar levels cause the excess of glucose in a body being excreted, all along with water and salts," he cites after one of the ever coming medical papers from Ducky. They haven't made a neuroscientist out of him, of course – but they did provide him a lot of an insight. "So, dehydration and electrolyte deficiency. Do I need to tell _you_ how they affect bodily functions, _including_ proper muscle movement? Thats right - you get twitches and cramps. And think just how much of this stuff you drink daily!"

Finally, he has her full attention, without this wall of flippant denial that she had pulled up for some reason. Oh yeah. He had learned a long time ago – wanna to get the point to Abby? Speak science. By now, she is probably doing her own calculations in that crazy brilliant brain of hers.

"Blood test, just in case," he orders categorically. "And I wanna see the results."

Between the huff of annoyance and her eyes rolled and averted in defeat, he knows it's a 'fine, whatever'. Grumpy as it is, the acknowledgement is good enough for him for now.

"Anything else I can do for you? I have things to sort out."

Satisfied with the state of her muscles, he rises carefully from his kneeling position and takes a stand above her. Yes, there is. He was going to wait with this conversation till work was done but it appears like it might be about one and the same thing. "HR called me in this morning," he replies concisely. With the opening window like the one she's just provided, he might as well keep going and be done with it. "They don't like the number of your hours on your yearly summary. It's too high."

"What do you meant too high? I log my hours to the minute! If they had some error in the system, I have my own copies, I can show them –"

"No, no error," he stops her before she goes too far in the wrong direction, "Just way too much overtime than is acceptable."

"Just _that_? Too much overtime?" The huff she releases now splits the difference between annoyance and relief. "Like that's something new here! Seriously, don't they have any bigger problems than somebody's few extra hours?"

Seeing her logging out of the computer, get up and walk right passed him towards the inner lab, the wall of flippancy up again, something snaps in him. He follows her but spotting a familiar object on her desk, he quickly changes his mind. A few clicks on the random buttons on the remote control and he gets what he wanted; the lock on the sliding door engages, keeping it closed. With only two buttons remaining, it takes only another second for the steel entrance door to shut with a metallic thud.

She turns around slowly, mute question in her wide open eyes and utterly serious face.

"A few _hundred_ extra hours, Abs," he clarifies. "Only two full weekends off since July, thanks to you being on call apparently also for Quantico. _That_ not a problem?"

"No, why? I mean, it did get in a way of a few concerts I wanted to go to but it's fine. I knew what I was signing up for."

"In a way of – " He can't quite believe what he's just heard. Inside, he is near boiling point. It has been building up in him since last night at hers, when he found out that Abby had kept something from him, his anger fueled by DiNozzo's spilled news about this whole proposal thing, then the revelations in HR office, and finally, by Allison Hart's unexpected visit. "And why am I finding out about this from _HR_?"

"From HR? Gibbs, what are you talking about? I told you about it _months ago_!"

Abby's reply dumbfounds him, cutting his protest before he voices it. Always proud of never needing a calendar or an organizer, he suddenly doubts himself; a feeling that is definitely _not_ pleasant. And this flash of self-doubt had shown on his face, clearly; Abby's own facial expression turns from an honest surprise to a disbelief.

"Gibbs, seriously! In July, remember? Quantico had their lab on shut down and Vance asked me to help them till they sort themselves out," she carries on, every single detail of her body language speaking of the truth she is saying. "When I told you, you were like, 'Yeah, Abs, show 'em how it's done!' and just waved me off!"

Finally, the provided detail unlocks something in his mind. The memory of him saying those words _is_ there indeed but weirdly foggy, and it bugs him. Normally, he just _doesn't_ forget. Anything.

One thing he knows with perfect clarity though; _why_ he had been okay with her, helping the Quantico branch; more lab work meant more time at the Yard, where it was just easier for him to keep her safe from the Reynosa Cartel. _Everything_ was about the Reynosa Cartel that summer. "That was _months ago,_ " with the memory of the event fuzzy around the edges, he chooses the safe way to answer, refusing to admit openly to the lapse in his memory. "And now I'm telling you to stop."

"Gibbs, how can you even say that?"she spins around, disbelief and frustration obvious in her body language as she begins to pace. "They still need my help with some of the lab stuff!"

"And I need you..! …to be well while you work here," he adds quickly, immediately giving himself a mental head slap for the impulsive slip up. It's a chain reaction – the fact that his memory has failed him bothers him, and what Abby has just said doesn't make things any better. Him, not being aware of Quantico _still_ needing help, not aware of Abby coming in to work during the weekends when he was off duty, means that he hasn't done good enough job at keeping himself up to date with everything. Unacceptable – especially now, when he is an acting Director. And upset at his own failures always leads him to lose that otherwise tight grip on his self-control. "Care to look in the mirror, Abs? Bloodshed eyes, pupils blowing in and out… You're pale as a ghost!"

His words do silence her, even if only for a brief moment. "Thanks, Gibbs," her voice is oddly quiet when she finally replies. "Feels really awesome to be reminded that I'm not one of the lucky women who look like a million bucks in the morning."

"Abs, c'mon! Can you be sensible here?"

"I am. _You_ are the one yelling that I look like crap."

"Damn it, I'm not –!" realizing that he is, indeed, practically yelling, he reigns himself in. Like crap? God, that's not at all what he meant! Women! Some stubborn part of him suddenly and idiotically wishes that she could see herself through his eyes, even just the once. Then, he wouldn't have to put in words how beautiful she is to him, even tired. "I meant you look pale like you're about to faint," he clarifies, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the tangle of her black, wavy hair. How would she react if he told her right now that his fingers just _itch_ to be buried in those silky locks of hers and tangle them some more as he kisses her senseless? "Like last night, when I was here with DiNozzo! You, who never faints! You want more? What about your trouble sleeping? How many times have you complained about that, huh? Every night, you said! Yet, at your desk, you fall asleep in seconds and so deeply, you need a good shake to wake. Guess what? That _does_ happen when you're overworked, you know? Been there, almost burned out. Won't let ya do the same, Abs!" he declares powerfully. Screw the fact that she will never be his, not the way he'd want. She is still one of his people, _his_ to worry about. "Not on my watch!"

Once more, Abby doesn't reply straight away. He can practically see the fight in her, although what exactly she is feeling right now is hard to tell, surprisingly. "Yeah, I _am_ tired. Tired, dying to wash all the grease and grime off me and my eyes burn from staring at the screen for hours," she says finally and he waits for more, now that she's decided to admit the obvious truth. "So what? All I need is a long, hot shower and a few solid hours of sleep."

He rolls his eyes at her stubbornness. He should have known. Abby doesn't just give in.

"I'm _fine_ , Gibbs, so don't worry, okay? I'm tired but _not_ about to faint, I'm definitely _not_ at risk of burning out, and I'm _not_ giving up the Quantico hours," Abby isn't done talking and her voice, though still quiet, gradually gains definite and decisive tones, ones he recognizes easily as the ones she uses when her mind is absolutely made up. "I _promised_ to help till they're fully back on their feet and I will _not_ get back on my word, whatever HR says. I was the Quantico lab's best shot and still am. Ask Leon – that's his words. And besides, he secured me a great overtime reimbursement and I need that money."

' _For what, a wedding?'_ he almost snaps again, stopped from voicing this angry thought only by a loud, characteristic beep from the Mass Spectrometer behind his back. He bites his tongue, quite literally, forcing himself to hold back. Not the time or place to ask about anything personal. Not that he should – at all. No one should know about his jealousy – especially her.

Abby, also distracted by the machine's call, turns around. And then, she turns some more, and then some more still, as more beeps and dings sound all over the lab, almost all at once. "Whoa, easy boys!" she exclaims, her attention now exclusively on the lab's equipment. "I'm _one_ person!"

Feeling a little disregarded, as always when she gets sucked into her private world of her beloved machines, he silently watches her as she runs from one monitor to another to check out the findings. And then, for some reason, he remembers what DiNozzo mentioned a few hours earlier, right after they had returned from the scene. "Maybe you should get an assistant then."

His comment doesn't even stop her in her tracks. "Very funny..." she replies without even looking at him as makes a beeline for the whirring printer. Only from there, she throws him a quick but pointed look, "…not."

"No, it isn't!" He lets her collect all the printouts, waiting for her at the main computer station, where she eventually returns. "You _are_ one person, Abs. Even DiNozzo thinks you need help around here!"

"DiNozzo's thinking needs a check-up!" she snaps, her eyes never leaving the pages which content she is analyzing. "And his lips some duct tape."

As much as he agrees on that last remark, that's not the point right now. "And I think he's right!"

He does get her attention – it is, however, far, far from their usual way when they prod each other to engage in a friendly banter. Abby faces him fully, spinning so fast that her loose hair whip about her, her disbelieving eyes opening even wider the second their gazes meet.

"Gibbs, if that is to rile me up some more, you've done it, okay? If you're mad at me, just go on yelling at me, fine; that, I can take. But this..? Please tell me you're _just_ messing with me –"

She trails off, awareness of his seriousness on the matter clear in her eyes. She is Abby, she knows him and she can read him – probably better than anyone ever.

"No!" she interrupts him firmly before he can even say her name. "Just no! One more word about assistants and all this goes straight to your e-mail! And with no commentary!"

The threat of the results being _e-mailed_ to him is hardly scary but it's enough to give him a surprised pause at her outburst.

"Do you want to hear it or not?"

Well, yeah.

He backs off – for now. But listening to her voice, delivering the latest findings in almost business-like manner, he finds himself thinking that he will not let the issue drop. What started as an impulsive follow up on Tony's suggestion, a mere testing of the waters, very quickly grows into a fully blown idea, backed up by his own gut feeling. This could be a solution – whether permanent or just a temporary one, it doesn't matter. That will be clearer once he had a closer look at this whole situation, talking to Leon included.

Well-being of his people first.

Even if she will hate him for it.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****

"What are you doing?"

The question, drawled softly directly into his ear, is so unexpected that he instinctively reaches for his weapon, the gesture sending the manila folder in his hand flying. Startled noise bit down before it can pass his lips, he turns around, glowering. "Ziva, what the actual hell!" he hisses with anger. His hands, finding no weapon – it's in the drawer of his desk upstairs, of course – wave in frustration at being caught. "What is it with everyone, sneaking up?"

"What sneaking up?" Ziva deadpans innocently. Ha! Her soft tone and her wide open eyes would have been convincing in some other person – but not in her. "You just weren't paying enough attention."

"What are you doing here?" he deflects with a quiet voice, not wanting to comment on the obvious fact that he was indeed oblivious to her presence till she spoke to him.

"Mrs. Peters is here. I called you but you left your cell on your desk. My turn. Why is the lab door locked?"

"Came down to ask Abby about something and found it like that. Why do you think I'm still standing here?"

"I don't know; you do many weird things, Tony," Ziva merely shrugs. "To eavesdrop, maybe?"

"Hey! I was only _checking_ if she is okay in there!" he corrects her. Nevermind the fact that he _was_ eavesdropping, like a little girl. "Which, she is. I heard Gibbs' voice inside so it's fine, you can stand down."

"Like I said, eavesdropping," Ziva nods to herself. "But Gibbs, here? Didn't McGee say he went to get a coffee?"

"I'm as wise as you are," he replies. "My bet is that he just teleports."

Despite wanting to resume his listening, he knows better. Besides, the scattered files won't pick themselves up off the floor.

Ziva, however, has no such task to worry about. Before even the first page is back in the folder, she is already by the door. It takes her only a moment of listening, ear tightly pressed against the steel surface, before she nods almost imperceptibly and confirms softly, "Yes, it is Gibbs. They're arguing with each other, I hear no third person in there."

"Well, I just said it's Boss, didn't I?!" with the files bunched up together again, he stands next to his partner, making a face at her lack of trust in everybody else's judgment. And then, it gets to him fully what she said. "Wait… they're doing _what?_

"Arguing," Ziva clarifies with a dispassionate shrug, still listening. And even if he wanted to doubt her, he can't, for the voices from the inside suddenly rise to the volume that is audible even to him, despite him standing a good two feet from the door. "We should leave them to their business. Let's go; Mrs. Peters is waiting."

"What? I mean, I know, interview, yeah. But c'mon, Gibbs and Abby, _arguing_?" as Ziva steps away from the door to leave, he blocks her way to the lift, surprised by her absolute lack of interest. "Aren't you even a bit curious?

"You, to the contrary, are _dying_ to know," Ziva sidesteps him with ease, her choice of action surprising him. Whereas he blocks her way to the elevator, she heads straight for the staircase.

"More than that," wanting to spend a couple more minutes alone in her presence, he jogs after her. "I'm _concerned_. C'mon, you know them, too! Gibbs and Abby _arguing_ is like… like the end of the world coming or something!"

"Yes, I do know them. Neither is of easy temperament; it does tend to create tension, and that sometimes leads to arguments. And no, the world won't end just because two people argued.

"Are you hearing yourself, Ziva? I've known them for years and I've never heard them even raise a voice at each other! Especially him at her!"

"Not that it gets us anywhere nearer to the point, if there _is_ any of course, but your last statement is untrue," Ziva gives him a superior look as they both reach for the door that leads to the staircase. "You _have_ heard him raise his voice at her.."

"I have not!"

"Oh yes, you have. We _all_ have, actually. Just two months ago, the Thorson case, remember? When Abby returned from her meeting with Professor Redner."

Well… damn. "Okay, you're right," he admits begrudgingly. "But it only proves it! It was the first sign of the end of the word approaching and I missed it. Think about it! First, he raises his voice at her, like he _never, ever does_ , next, he goes away _for Christmas_ , like he _never, ever_ does, and now, he buys _us_ breakfast, like he _never, ever_ does, and actually _yells_ at Abby _,_ like he _never, ever_ does. And come to think about it…" he scrambles through his memories, suddenly realizing that there have been more of such changes. "What about those interns he allowed into NCIS like he _never, ever_ does? That is so _ungibbs_!"

"And what of it?" Ziva snorts, not even slowing her brisk pace up the stairs, "People change with time and do things they haven't done before. Simple. Stop being such a drama princess about it!"

"I'm not that. And for the record, it's _'_ drama _queen_ ', not princess."

"I know," this time, Ziva doesn't even look at him but the annoyance in her voice is unmistakable, "but 'Princess' suits you better."

Silenced by her sarcastic remark, he finds himself struggling to find an appropriate reply. And, as they continue to the second floor, he decides not to drag the topic altogether. She will mark his words, sooner or later. Because, he thinks to himself, what has started as an exaggerated comment, suddenly grows into a rapidly strengthening conviction. Gibbs doing just one 'ungibbs' thing and only once in a while could be dismissed as a fluke – but so many and in such a short time span? That's a pattern and those are never without a cause.

Worth keeping an eye on.

For now though, as they wordlessly cross the Squad Room, he focuses on the next of his tasks. No point waiting for Gibbs anymore – now that he is down in the lab, he's probably been updated by Abby on whatever there was to report. Besides, who knows what mood Boss will be in after that argument with his favorite Lab Rat...

The last thought makes him haste his moves. He wastes no time depositing the medical file from Ducky and McGee's PDA on Gibbs' and McGee's respective desks and getting to his own to collect what he will need for the interview. Ziva must have prepared earlier, for when he heads out of the bullpen, she is hot on his heels.

"In a hurry somewhere, DiNozzo?"

It surprises them both; when he stops dead in his tracks, Ziva stumbles into him from behind, holding onto him momentarily. "To interview Mrs. Petersen, Boss," he explains simply, raising an eyebrow when Gibbs, fast approaching from the elevator, wordlessly shepherds Ziva and him back into the bullpen. But he refrains from voicing his question; Boss isn't one to stop someone from performing without a reason.

And yeah, he has a one, for he begins to update before McGee is even fully out of his chair. "DNA results came through. Abby was right – Petersen and O'Neill were half-brothers," sharing the first news, Gibbs is still on the move, busy depositing his coat on the shelf behind his desk and then, looking around for something. It happens to be the plasma's remote control, as he immediately after spotting it, makes a bee line straight for it. As the plasma re-activates, he stares for a moment at the CCTV recording that is still on pause. When he exits to 'full view', the image of the flattened, scared palm disappears, showing instead the whole still of the lobby at the moment of the girls' entry. "McGee!" this time he turns to make eye contact, to which Tim reacts with readiness. "How long were you and I out this morning?"

"I didn't pay attention, exactly… but I can calculate, from the call I received from you onward!" eager to give a precise answer, Tim checks his cellphone, mumbling something to himself that sounds very much like a sped up subtraction and he just rolls his eyes at his teammate's naiveté. _'Seriously, McOblivious!'_ It really is a wonder how McGee just cannot see where this is going… "Precisely one hour and forty eight minutes, Boss. But why…?"

"One hour and forty eight minutes. And during that time, you decided _not_ to tell me that you found this girl on the CCTV _why_ exactly?"

Standing behind Gibbs, he can't see his face but from a sudden flash of fear in McGee's eyes and then, a dark pink tint beginning to pour down his cheeks, he can only guess their superior's expression. He can imagine it all too easily; he's faced it enough times.

"I… didn't, Boss. I mean… I didn't say because I didn't know. Abby found her. She told you that I missed it, didn't she?"

"No," Boss' voice is low even but after years of experiencing Gibbs' moods, he knows better than to be deceived by this apparent calmness. " _You_ just did!"

McGee only nods, all beetroot red by now. To his credit though, he tries hard to hold Gibbs' stare, despite the guilt written all over his flustered face. But when the latter finally steps out of his personal space and turns his attention back to the plasma, McGee breathes out silently but with a visible relief. Oh yeah. Gibbs' stare does tent to have that effect on people.

"This girl _was_ in Peters' room. He even took a photo of her in there," with all too familiar beep, the channels on the plasma are now switched, now displaying whatever is being shared from the lab. In front of them, captured by what is clearly a phone, the girl stares solemnly into the camera, the room in the background unmistakable. What's even more important though, he thinks, with the girl's bruised face so close to the camera and positioned almost as for a passport shot, this is a perfect mug shot, a much choice to update their BOLO. "According to Facebook, her name's Marisol Vásquez, from El Salvador."

He raises his eyebrows high at Gibbs' words. "You use Facebook, Boss?" he can't help but ask. The way Gibbs glares at him, he probably should bite his tongue out but despite his better judgment, he holds Boss' stare resolutely. It's not the first time his mouth ran away from him but seriously – since when do they treat Facebook as a trustworthy source of info? "What else does her profile give us?"

"Photos, from El Salvador and D.C. Some of them feature her with Petersen _and_ with O'Neill together, going back about a year," despite the obvious grizzly bear mood, Gibbs doesn't even bother addressing any mischief. Clearly, no time for it for now. "Abby traced where the posts came from. Most recent place, used between September and mid-December, is Neighborhood Library in Douglass, Southeast D.C. The one used before that, was registered to O'Neill. She wasn't on the list of tenants in his building but her name is on the list of those who were given First Aid on the night of the fire."

"Ducky said her scars were caused by fire," he cuts in. "It would add up."

Gibbs merely nods, confirming. "Now, the stain on Peters' bleached cammies was blood. It was a hundred percent DNA match to DNA extracted from all hairs and the blood from the bottles. It also came as a partial match to what Abby found on the back of Peters' other blouse, one he wore when he died. Someone related to this girl spat on Peters after he went down."

Seeing his superior fumble with the remote again, he outs his hopeful thoughts quickly, "So, she wasn't taken just because. She knew the killer! We find her, Boss, and chances are, we'll have all of their names."

"We gotta find her first, DiNozzo. Hopefully, still alive," Gibbs reminds him dryly. With a quiet click of the worn out remote, followed by the monitor's beep, they get the next photo in the folder. It looks like the same shot of the girl in the room but this time, with another area of her body outlined in red. What on the hotel's CCTV was just a blotch of black, a blur barely recognizable as a tattoo, now, with a better angle and a much better light, looks clear and very detailed. "A head of a horse. Abby managed to match–"

"Oh, I know this one!" Ziva perks up by his side suddenly, cutting Gibbs half word. "La Vida Mala – it is how this gang marks their drug mules!"

"La Vida Mala? Boss?" as Gibbs simply nods, confirming Ziva's observation, he quickly moves back to his superior's desk, where the Autopsy Report still sits where he had dropped it earlier. "Back in 2005, O'Neill was hospitalized due to a knife fight. Police suspected LVM members to be the attackers but he refused to press any charges. He himself was at the time a member of another gang, 'The Arrows'. Locals."

"Abby thinks that Peters was too, once," Gibbs carries on, once more clicking on the remote's button. The display changes, now showing the shots of the deceased. "That scar in his left eyebrow? It used to be a tattoo. I've seen the negative, it has a clear shape of an arrow. McGee! You get Peters' sealed record?"

"Uhm… yeah, Boss, I did! I just started reading it."

"Pull it up!"

Only seconds later they have their confirmation; in his notes, Peters' recruiting officer had described what they had seen so often in the past – a boy with a minor criminal record, scared by a near-death experience and determined to do make something out of himself, something the street life could never offer. "So, an LVM chick hanging with the rival Arrows and airing it all online, probably without even bothering with the privacy settings. It means, everyone can see all her posts," he adds for Gibbs' benefit. For the smart man that he is, the digital world is still _not_ Boss' forte. "A recipe for a disaster, if you ask me."

"You don't say!" Gibbs only gives him a look. "She called Peters for help when he was still on duty, left him a voicemail. It came from… Ah, damn it. McGee! Abby said she had the route from Peters' navigator ready. Got it yet?"

Normally one to excitedly wiggle his fingers when given any computer challenge, McGee gets on with the given task quickly but solemnly and in a complete silence. Small wonder. Being reproached by their superior usually makes all of them work that much harder but McGee's skin isn't as hardened as his or Ziva's. It will take him a bit to recover, he thinks.

As soon as the route's overview is out on the plasma, Gibbs wastes no time in pointing at the slowly pulsating red dot. "That's the one. McGee, zoom."

It proves to be a good move, as the zoomed view gives them a more detailed road layout, including their names and landmarks. "Congress Heights. Boss, this gas station isn't very far from that library in Douglass you mentioned! Are you thinking what I'm thinking that she must be from around that area?"

"Uh-huh," Gibbs confirms. "We could start with this gas station's cameras and work out backwards where she came from."

"What about the library itself, Boss? To make a library ID, you need to fill in the application, right? Maybe they have her address, like the other library had O'Neill's?"

"They might," McGee, silent so far, pipes in. "Or not. Some libraries are ultra-protective and some relax the rules a bit if you come just to use the internet. But I can check it."

"No, focus on the map," Gibbs orders simply. "Ziva!"

Called out, Ziva steps away from his side and though their shoulders weren't even really touching, he feels her lack almost physically. He can't help but glance after her as she settles herself behind her desk and then, shakes off mentally; it's _really_ not a good time to allow himself to think how he badly he wants her.

"He didn't even go near that gas station…" The way Gibbs sounds right now, they all might as well be on some other planet; he's seen this intense concentration many times before. This is one of those moments when even he knows to keep quiet. "McGee, go back to the starting point. From Norfolk on – any exits, or stops?"

The map in front of them does a blurry fly by, slowing only once Norfolk comes to view. McGee scrolls slowly up, the route direct and showing only the speed marked by Abby every now and then. "Pit-stop at a gas station in New Kent," urged with Gibbs' impatient gesture to continue, McGee scrolls some more, "From then on, he stuck to the highway only, no stopping at all."

Indeed, the route is pretty straightforward, showing the average 85mph, dropping only occasionally to the legal limit and going back up again. This, as they analyze it in silence and almost without blinking, continues steadily passed Richmond and all the way to Springfield. Only there, things change.

"395 was the fastest route to 'Days Inn' but he didn't take it. Instead, he headed Southeast where she called him from but didn't even go near the station itself," he hears Gibbs' voice, clearly a mere voicing his inner monologue. "Speed still high so still in a hurry to get to her… But she said, 'get me from padre' so his place shouldn't be far from that station… somewhere in the Southeast... McGee, there! Exit in Anacostia!"

What they have missed earlier with the map maximally zoomed in, is now obvious; after exiting the freeway, Peters meandered seemingly aimlessly through the back streets but altogether, headed east.

"This one!" nearly poking the plasma in an obvious impatience, Gibbs points to one of many time markers on the zigzagging loop. Unlike the others, mostly on intersections and lasting only seconds, this one's duration shows over five minutes, "After that, he made a turn to get back on the freeway and headed straight for 'Days Inn', with no further detours or stopping. This is where he must have picked her up."

"Boss…" Tim's voice is hesitant to interrupt and they turn to him impatiently. "Boss, whatever he was doing there, these coordinates are not far from where we were today. Look!" A moment of intense typing later, initials S.O. dot appear on the map, indeed only a few blocks away. "It's only half a mile from Seamus O'Neill's old address!"

"…a place she's visited before. So, she definitely ran for safety to the familiar grounds. Who wants to bet that Peters' old home address is also within a spitting distance?" he throws a little challenge to no one in particular. But he's pretty sure of the outcome; one doesn't even need to be a former cop to know that most gangs often start out locally, drafting the youth from within one or two neighboring hoods. So, when McGee's magic McClicking produces Peters' record, and then, adds yet another set of initials on the map, marking Lance Corporal' former address literally across the park from his pit-stop, he is not at all surprised. "See? I win. Although technically it's a spitting distance plus quarter of a mile or so but I hope you won't hold my miscalculation against me –"

"McGee," Boss' voice cuts him off, "This girl's voicemail said, 'get me from padre'. Any street cams there to see which house she came out of, where he lives?"

"I will need a couple of minutes to check," McGee promises. "But there a few places nearby that might have cameras too, Boss. He parked near the church, there is a school and convenience store, just down the road."

"McGee, wait… you said 'church'?" When Tim confirms, Gibbs quickly demands more, "Check who's in charge there."

In Tim's case, any simple internet search takes mere seconds. "Father Alvarez, Boss."

When it comes to their superior, they don't normally get any verbal announcement of his inner eureka. What they _do_ get, is his body language. It is why, when Gibbs suddenly springs back to his desk, they all watch his every move, even Ziva, despite being still actively busy on the phone. They are all so tuned to follow his actions that by the time he's thrown his coat back on, they have their own in their hands, too, ready to go.

"What are you all doin'?"

"Well… we roll, right?"

"Nah, DiNozzo, we _fly_ ," Gibbs comment is dry but without even a hint of anger. "But not all. McGee!" his teammate stops frozen at the sound of his name. "You have homework to finish. One – gas station in Congress Heights, see if you can trace where she came from. Two – use the rest of Peters' route to work out which street cams are useful to us. Three – see if they were followed, at any point, by anyone. These are vehicles of special interest, a match to the tires from the scene," picking up the bunch of files he had brought from the lab, he pulls out two pages, "All dirt bikes, should be _easy_ to spot."

He watches Tim accept the printouts, noting the red that creeps again up on his teammate's pale face, no doubt a result of hearing Boss' remark. And rightly so. Had Tim spotted the girl last night, when he was analyzing the hotel's CCTV, they would have been hours into looking for her by now. Her chances, as slim as they were anyway, would have been much higher.

Well, at least a little higher.

"Ziva! Any luck with that library?"

"They run open internet room, charge per hour, no ID needed. No Marisol Vasquez in their system but she might be under a fake name. They are happy to cooperate but only way to check is to go through their record on site –"

"Alright – with me! DiNozzo!" he straightens up at the call of his name, already sure he won't be going and trying not to show disappointment at being grounded. "As you were, interview Mrs. Peters. Ask if she knows about…"

"…his past, his trouble, his half-brother and anything about the girlfriend, when was the last she heard from him, I'll call if she gives us anything relevant," Boy, but isn't it nice to see Gibbs' appreciation, even if it comes in the form of only slightly raised eyebrow! "And you, Boss? You're off to that church, aren't you? You really think that priest might know something?"

"DiNozzo… talking to _padre_ at church can be sometimes illuminating."

"Illuminating? Well, I've never talked to one so I can't say," For a moment there, he is slightly confused, just as much as McGee is; a norm by now when Boss speaks up one of his cryptic hints. "But I get it. You think the padre there knows his parishioners and might point us to her father, right?" And then, as soon as words are out of his mouth, it hits him. "Wait a second! You mean, when that girl asked Peters to pick her up from _padre,_ she meant the priest, not her father?"

"C plus for your Spanish, DiNozzo. Now, keep rowing this boat till I get back."

Just as Gibbs and Ziva turn to leave, a shrill ringtone sounds from under Boss' coat. "Yeah, Gibbs," the greeting is curt and emotionless, as always, but that quickly changes, "Can't. Tell them I'm in the middle of the investigation."

They can't hear what the caller's reply is but judging by Gibbs' face, they did not comply. "Agent Reed, did I not just make myself clear? Tell SecNav I'll call back when I can!"

He doesn't need to hear anymore; even the first name used makes the situation rather obvious. Agent Reed is their MTAC technician so her calling Gibbs' cell can only mean some important screen time upstairs.

"Boss!" he steps right in front of Gibbs as he passes by his desk on a way out, something that earns him a frown and a warning flash of the famous blue stare when they almost bump into each other. He doesn't quite know what has possessed him to do that, but here he is. "It's SecNav… you should get it. I can manage here."

"You're giving me orders now, DiNozzo?"

It's not easy to withstand Gibbs' stare at its full blaze when standing practically nose to nose with him but somehow, he manages it. "I'm saying, Boss, you've got the whole NCIS ship to captain," he reminds calmly. "And that's what I am here for; to row the small boat so you can take care of the big picture."

Ready to receive the head slap of a century, something that looks like coming any moment, he is surprised when the seconds keep ticking still and nothing is happening. And he is even more surprised when the chill of the glare softens in a blink and Gibbs suddenly steps back and reaches into his coat's pocket.

"Easy on 11th Street Bridge. Patches of black ice all over."

The car keys dangled in front of his face, he grabs them with a nod, choosing to keep silent and not to comment on Boss' words. Green light, the way he had just been given, is as much of a 'thank you!' as one ever really gets from Gibbs.

But when he and Ziva wait for the elevator to arrive, something possesses him again. By then Gibbs is already on the top floor, almost outside MTAC, so not willing to push his luck as far as to shout across the Squad Room, he snaps his cell out of the pocket and dials quickly. "I almost forgot!" he speaks the moment Gibbs' clipped 'what?' sounds in the phone's ear piece. "Thanks for breakfast, Boss. It was really good."

"Yeah… You're welcome, Tony."

The cell goes silent, and so does his brain. Okay. So Gibbs just openly said 'you're welcome' to him. No big deal. Not at all.

Except that it is another one of those things that Gibbs _never, ever does._

Yup, the end of the world is coming. Or, perhaps, he thinks ridiculously, something happened to _him_ and he is actually in some alternate universe. Because in his regular DiNozzo universe, there is just _no way_ that Gibbs buys the whole breakfast for the team, _yells_ at Abby and then, doesn't deal out any head slaps, despite being baited and then on top of that, even acknowledges a 'thanks' with an actual 'you're welcome'. So, if he asks Ziva to come to the movie night at his place and she accepts his invitation, Ziva, who always finds excuses to turn down _any_ invites from him, he will know for sure…

When she does, as they walk towards the parking, agreeing to come with an eagerness that is very _unziva,_ he just stops analyzing further. Yup, it's confirmed. Alternate universe it is.

But alternate universe or not, she _has_ agreed. She is coming and that's all that matters to him. She is coming and there is no way he will let this opportunity slide.

No more wasting time, he promises himself.

 **NCIS*** NCIS*** NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS***NCIS*****


End file.
